Cat Among the Pumpkins (3 page)

‘I don’t think anyone could answer that, not even Bruiser himself – he’s been around for as long as I can remember. I really thought the great storm had taken him. A lot of cats died that night, too many to count. You were so lucky to be staying with Jessie and Miss Lambert.’

Tilly nodded in agreement. Miss Lambert had befriended many a cat in need, and having adopted Jessie as a tiny kitten, she continued to offer shelter where and when it was needed to those less fortunate. Tilly had never forgotten that kindness, and although Miss Lambert now resided in an ornate Chinese urn on Jessie’s mantelpiece, her guiding light was brighter than ever.

‘Speaking of Miss Lambert, I must get to the shops before your lesson. I promised Jessie I’d look in on her so that we could go across to the Methodist Hall together to hear your talk.’

A number of muffled expletives filled the air in the small shed as Hettie, paraffin can in paw, tumbled out from behind an assortment of old microphone stands. Wearing the latest in cobweb headgear, she let it be known as only she could that she had quite forgotten the blot on Tuesday’s landscape.

‘Why the hell did I agree to it? A bunch of bored busybodies with nothing better to do, sitting round in a draughty old hall expecting to be entertained by the great and the good of the town, with nothing to offer at the end of it except an over-baked slice of Victoria sponge and a cup of over-brewed tea that’s strong enough to clean the drains.’

As Hettie got into her stride, Tilly knew that if she didn’t interrupt her flow they would waste the best part of the day, and she waded quickly into the new war zone.

‘It’s what they call a friendship club and they meet because they’re lonely. They’ve been looking forward to your talk for weeks – you’re the biggest name they’ve had for some time, and Jessie says there’s talk of nothing else when they come into the shop. They’ve put posters up all over the town with your picture on, so you’ll have to see it through. I’m looking forward to it and it’s only a couple of hours, after all.’

Hettie, now a little calmer and fresh from Tilly’s diplomatic ego massage, locked the shed with a measured amount of bad grace and strode in a resigned sort of way back up the garden path to her fate at the Methodist Hall. Bruiser was still fast asleep, so she banked up the fire and grabbed her notes for the friendship group while Tilly raided the housekeeping tin and fetched the tartan shopper on wheels which she kept by one of the bread ovens in the outer hall. Swathing themselves in scarves and woolly hats, they strode off down the High Street together, stopping off briefly to order pies for supper from the Butters’ shop.

The day was bright and the winter sunshine had done its best to burn off the night’s frost. The High Street was bustling with shoppers and delivery vans, and there was the usual queue spilling out onto the pavement from Lavender Stamp’s post office. Lavender – subscribing to the old adage that patience was a virtue and that anything from her post office counter was worth waiting for – dealt with her clients
on an individual basis, dispensing Her Majesty’s stamps, postal orders and deepest sympathy cards to the townsfolk with a slow and deadly accuracy.

Hettie and Tilly made good progress but slowed their pace a little as they passed Oralia Claw’s Nail Bar, a business that had become famous in the town for all the wrong reasons. Oralia’s spectacular death had transformed the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency into one of the most sought-after businesses of its kind, although Hettie and Tilly turned down most of the cases offered, preferring to take on assignments that required a minimum amount of effort for a maximum amount of pay.

‘Still to let, then,’ noted Hettie, as the empty paraffin can she’d been swinging clanked against the peeling paintwork of the late Oralia’s display window. ‘You’d think some enterprising cat would have snapped it up by now.’

Tilly, disentangling one of her shopper’s wheels from a stray Halloween streamer that had joined them outside Hilda Dabit’s Dry Cleaners, looked up at the Nail Bar and shook her head. ‘Ah well, it’s just like the old Myers house – no one wanted to take that on after the murders, not until Irene Peggledrip came along. Too many ghosts, that’s the trouble.’

‘Oh, not that again!’ said Hettie. ‘Halloween is over for another year, thank goodness. Milky Myers and his ridiculous story can be laid to rest, and Irene
Peggledrip is barking mad – she probably made the story up in the first place to encourage folk to go to her strange parties.’

‘She calls them séances.’ Tilly’s words were lost in a sudden gust of wind as Hettie strode out ahead of her towards Hambone’s, not wishing to engage in any further talk of ghosts, murderers or batty old cats who talked to the dead.

Tilly had caught up by the time Hettie reached the hardware shop and they went in together to be greeted by Meridian Hambone, who sat on her high stool by the counter.

‘Gawd love us if it ain’t Sherlock and Whatsit! What can I sell yer today?’ Meridian presided over the town’s Aladdin’s cave. Her shop was stocked to bursting with anything and everything that a homely cat could desire, from mops and buckets to a very upmarket line in ‘’lectrics’, all slightly soiled and of dubious provenance – a fact which was reflected in their price and in the speed with which they were pounced upon by Meridian’s regulars, who asked no questions and paid in cash.

Hettie banged her empty can down on the counter with such force that Meridian threatened to topple clean off her perch.

‘If it’s the paraffin yer wants, you’ll ’ave to get it yerself. Lazarus has gone an’ broken ’is leg. One of them big old fridges fell on ’im when he was takin’ – er,
I means unloadin’ – it from a lorry. Stupid great lump. Now ’e’s stuck down the yard up to ’ere in plaster and no ’elp to ’is poor old Ma.’ Meridian paused long enough to spit an unwanted wine gum into a strategically placed bucket and continued. ‘’E can’t do yer lesson, if that’s what yer ’ere for, although I could take yer out if yer liked.’ Meridian cackled in delight at Hettie’s fearful expression. ‘I was sitting astride bikes afore yer granny was born! I taught Lazarus all ’e knows, and I’ve never been one to avoid oil and grease under me claws.’

Hettie knew that she would have to respond quickly before Meridian settled into the highs and lows of her biker history. Spurred on by Tilly, who was keen to reach the food hall of Malkin and Sprinkle, she waded in. ‘That’s so kind of you, Meridian, and I hope Lazarus feels better soon, but I think we’ll just take the paraffin today and decide what to do about the lessons later.’ Hettie scrambled a collection of loose coins from her pocket and Meridian pounced on them. She retrieved the can from the counter and headed for the paraffin and oil section of the shop, noting that a bright and enticing display of fireworks was a little too close to the inflammables for comfort. Tilly, oblivious to the danger, lingered by the display, marvelling at the rockets and giant roman candles and sniffing the pungent smell of gunpowder with satisfaction.

Eyeing up the large barrel marked ‘Paryfin’, Hettie
began to unscrew the cap from her can while Tilly, reluctantly tearing herself away from the fireworks, seized a nearby stool and climbed onto it to reach the tap on the barrel which had a long pipe attached.

‘You’ll ’ave to use the funnel or it goes everywhere,’ croaked Meridian from the counter, sadly too late to prevent the first half pint from tipping itself over the floor. Tilly responded fast and switched the tap to the off position, while Hettie grabbed the funnel which lay redundant on the floor and jammed it into the can. She gave Tilly the nod to open the tap again, and the cats left the successfully filled can by the counter, ready to collect on their way back from the Methodist Hall.

The shopping had to be done at speed now that it was getting late. Reluctantly, Hettie took charge of the tartan shopper and saved a place in the checkout queue, while Tilly scooted round with a trolley that had a mind of its own and rolled towards the pre-packed meat counter every time she let go of it. Eventually she re-joined Hettie, much to the disgust of those behind her in the queue – not because she had pushed in, but because the strong smell of paraffin did not mix well with other purchases.

Doris Lean was on the till and gave them both short shrift as she slammed their shopping through her newly installed bleeper. She cranked up the conveyer belt to hasten their departure, only to be foiled by Mr Sprinkle, who appeared from nowhere and spent some
time passing a jovial time of day with Hettie whilst giving Doris Lean a very black look. Both Mr Malkin and Mr Sprinkle owed a great debt of gratitude to the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency and Hettie and Tilly were always assured of a warm welcome in the store, whether they reeked of paraffin or not.

With the tartan shopper fully loaded and Doris Lean put firmly in her place, Hettie and Tilly headed for Cheapcuts Lane, sharing a large packet of crisps as they went. Jessie’s charity shop was opposite the Methodist Hall and Hettie could see that the keener Friendship Club members were already beginning to arrive.

‘For goodness’ sake, just look at them! Talk about God’s waiting room. Why did I ever agree to this?’

Tilly giggled. ‘Well, you’re here now so you’ll have to go through with it. I’ll see you in there when I’ve picked Jessie up.’ Tilly gave Hettie a gentle shove in the direction of her audience and made her way to Jessie’s shop, where her friend was busy changing the window display from Halloween to bonfire night.

‘Oh good, you’re here. That means I can put the kettle on,’ Jessie said, as she clambered out of her window display brandishing a giant knitted pumpkin. ‘This’ll have to go away for another year. One more week and I’ll be getting the Christmas stuff out.’

Tilly loved her friend’s enthusiasm for making her charity shop a magical world of colour, with themed
window displays, co-ordinated clothes rails – mostly in reds, as this was Jessie’s favourite colour – and a fine collection of bric-a-brac for which any department store would have killed. Tilly occasionally looked after the shop when Jessie had other business to attend to, and was paid handsomely in cardigans and other fashion knits for her trouble – which to Tilly was no trouble at all.

‘Isn’t Hettie coming in?’ asked Jessie, giving Tilly a hug. ‘I thought her talk was at two.’

‘It is, but she likes to make sure the microphone’s working and the treasurer has made the cheque out properly. I think it goes back to her days in music – there was a lot of trouble getting paid in those days. She often talks about being ripped off.’

Jessie laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s any chance of that with the Methodists, but they are an odd lot. I’ll have a stampede in here when their meeting breaks up later – they’re very good for business. Let’s have a cup of tea, then I’ll shut up shop for a bit so we can go across and give Hettie some moral support.’

The Methodist Hall had seen much better days. On the few occasions that Hettie had had cause to visit, she had marvelled at how it always smelt of over-boiled cabbage, even though the small kitchen at the back had never served anything more adventurous than tea or coffee. All the foods that could be described as edible were brought in by the faithful on trays under tea towels or in plastic sealed boxes.

Today was no different. As Hettie made her way through the main door, she was virtually ignored by a bevy of cats clustered round a trestle table at the back of the hall next to the kitchen hatch. They were
busy laying out their baking in a competitive spirit that would have won wars: the obligatory Victoria sponge was jostling for position with a fussy mound of chocolate icing that had once been a Swiss roll; the scones looked quite nice, but the currants were burnt; and the porridge oat flapjacks were forced to remain in their plastic container, as no amount of coaxing could free them from the sticky mess of surplus syrup that had oozed out in transit.

‘Ah, Miss Bagshot! Welcome, welcome, welcome to our little Friendship Club! I’m so pleased you have found time to be with us for our Tuesday gathering. We are honoured to have such an important visitor in our midst. I spoke with you on the phone. I am Miss Anderton – that’s Bugs Anderton to my close friends.’

Hettie stood rooted to the spot as the Scottish ginger cat sailed across the hall towards her, only faltering when the paraffin smell filled her meeter-and-greeter’s nostrils. Seeing that the spillage was still causing a problem, and worried that her personal hygiene would be under discussion at the next meeting, Hettie responded to her welcome. ‘I must apologise for the smell on my clothes,’ she said. ‘My colleague and I have just returned from an undercover surveillance job where paraffin was stored, and I didn’t want to be late for the talk so there was no time to go home and change.’

‘My dear Miss Bagshot! How terribly exciting!
Fancy, you’ve come to us fresh – er, straight – from a real case! This can only add to the success of the afternoon. If you would care to freshen up in the members’ cloakroom, I’ll get Miss Treemints – our head of beverages – to make you a nice cup of tea. There’s no rush, as we have one or two matters of club business to get through before you’re called upon, and we’re waiting for stragglers to arrive before we can begin.’

Hettie followed directions to the cloakroom and took some time to wash her paws with a large bar of carbolic soap that had probably been in the building since it was built. The roller towel had been round the block a few times, too, and she decided to wipe her paws on her slacks instead. The paraffin smell was still there, but the carbolic soap had done its best to overpower it. Confident that she was now ready to meet her public, she gave herself a sideways glance in the cracked mirror and ventured back out into the hall to be met by a nervous looking cat proffering a cup of very strong tea which rattled on its saucer.

‘Miss Anderton asked me to make this for you. I hope there’s enough milk in it. I wasn’t sure how you liked it.’

Hettie offered a full smile as she took control of the tea. ‘That’s lovely,’ she lied. ‘Just the way I like it, Miss … er?’

‘Treemints. Delirium Treemints, head of beverages
and embroidered kneelers, although we don’t make those any more. Miss Anderton thinks they have gone out of fashion.’

Hettie was cautious in her response, mainly because she had no conversation regarding kneelers of any sort and she had noticed that Delirium’s paw was still shaking even though she was relieved of the tea. Bugs Anderton came to the rescue, clapping her paws together and calling the Friendship Club to order. Delirium scuttled away to take up her chair by the refreshments hatch, leaving Hettie to make her way forward to where Bugs Anderton was patting a chair on the small stage.

Hettie took her place next to the club’s president as Tilly and Jessie crept in at the back, giving her the paws-up sign as they settled into their seats. It was, however, some time before Hettie took centre stage. Bugs Anderton rose to her full height, stretching her long ginger neck to reveal elegant darker stripes, a signal to the faithful that she was about to speak. She tapped the microphone, satisfying herself that none of her words would be lost, and the Methodist Hall fell silent as all eyes turned to the stage. Bugs paused for dramatic effect, enjoying the power of expectation, and then began. ‘Members and friends, I am delighted to …’

A crash came from the back of the hall and a large cardboard box burst through the door as if on a gust
of wind. It was propelled by a thin, bespectacled dark brown cat, and seventeen pairs of eyes turned to watch Marmite Sprat make her late and very ill-timed entrance, more public than she had hoped.

Bugs Anderton was not amused. In fact, the hackles on her elegant neck were there for all to see as the seventeen pairs of eyes returned their gaze to the stage, which Hettie hoped in vain might open up and swallow them all.

‘Miss Sprat,’ Bugs boomed, trying to regain control of the situation, ‘I’m sure we’re all very pleased that you are able to honour us with your presence today, but you are well aware of our commencement time and according to my watch it is three minutes past two. I suggest you put your box down and quickly occupy a vacant chair at the back of the hall so that we may continue without further ado.’

Marmite faltered, then opened her mouth to speak, but Bugs was ahead of her and raised her paw as a barrier to any further interruption. Marmite allowed the box to slide to the floor and slunk into the first vacant chair she could find.

With the seat of power re-established, Bugs began again. ‘Members and friends, I am delighted to welcome Miss Bagshot into our midst today as our speaker. Miss Bagshot, as you may know, is the proprietor of the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency and has come to indulge us on how we may keep our
valuables safe. There will, of course, be an opportunity for members to ask questions from the floor. I’m sure we would all like to know a little more about some of the more … shall we say colourful cases she has been professionally involved in, wouldn’t we?’

The Friendship Club responded as one with a polite audible ‘Yes.’ Hettie fidgeted, eyeing up the crowd and taking in for the first time how diverse the gathering was. There were a few familiar faces – stalwarts of the town with claws in many pies, the flag sellers and bucket collectors who peppered the High Street on charity days, one or two members of the Pawlights local drama group and a few elderly cats who looked like they’d just come out for the afternoon to feel the warmth of the old cast iron radiators dotted around the hall. Hettie’s eyes eventually rested on Marmite Sprat – thin, pinched, and as far as Hettie could see, with no endearing physical qualities at all. Everything about Marmite was sharp and pointed; even her glasses had wings that stuck out from her face, reminding Hettie of the knives on Ben-Hur’s chariot, a film she often had to watch as it was one of Tilly’s favourites.

Bugs had been speaking for some time, and Hettie pulled herself back to the present just in time to realise that there was another hitch in the afternoon meeting of the Friendship Club.

‘And now I call on Mavis Spitforce for the minutes of our last meeting,’ the president continued. ‘Come
on Mavis, we haven’t got all day.’ Heads swivelled. Hettie scanned the audience and saw straight away that Miss Spitforce wasn’t there; she had taken on a small case for her several weeks ago and they had enjoyed a number of afternoon teas together in the course of her investigations.

‘Does anyone know why Mavis isn’t here?’ demanded Bugs, whose patience was looking increasingly frayed at the edges. The sea of faces shook their heads as one. ‘Very well. This is highly irregular, but it seems that I must read the minutes myself.’

Hettie glanced at the sheets of paper that Bugs Anderton was shuffling into some kind of order, wondering why she’d had to call on someone else to read them in the first place. She also noticed that the ‘minutes’ ran into several pages and cheered up at the prospect of giving a shorter talk herself. Bugs cleared her throat, indicating that she was about to begin.

‘The meeting of the last Methodist Hall Friendship Club was held on Tuesday 25th October. The meeting was opened by the club president, Miss Bugs Anderton, who informed us that the membership fees would be increased as and with effect from 1st November, due to the annual increase in the hire of the Methodist Hall. It was decided to look for cheaper premises for the New Year, when the membership list would also be reviewed. Miss Anderton announced that the Christmas lunch would be held in the restaurant
of Malkin and Sprinkle on 12th December and that all members should pay for their places at the next meeting, when a menu would be made available with a choice of main course. All money to be paid to our treasurer, Miss Balti Dosh. Miss Anderton also informed us that the after-lunch entertainment would, this year, be a performance of best loved Christmas carols and other seasonal novelties, presented by the combined spoon players and bell ringing club from Much-Purring-on-the-Rug.’

Hettie took another look at the crowd, keen to locate the treasurer, and settled on a very pretty Asian cat wearing a bright pink sari who smiled at the mention of her name.

‘Miss Anderton then informed us that the guest speaker for the next meeting would be Miss Hettie Bagshot of the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency. Captain Lionel Standback then took the stage and gave us an enlightening talk on bomb disposal, after which members were invited to vote on the best crocheted bookmark. The winner for the third year in succession – by a unanimous vote – was Miss Bugs Anderton, who received a standing ovation before tea was served by Delirium Treemints, assisted by Hilary Fudge and her daughter Cherry. The chairs were then neatly stacked by …’

Hettie began to feel that the Friendship Club had turned into some sort of purgatory from which she
would never be allowed to escape. The ‘minutes’ seemed to grow into days, weeks and then years, and it was a bit of a shock when Bugs Anderton finally announced her name to a round of relieved and eager applause. Knowing now that there was a real glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel, Hettie rose from her chair, adjusted the microphone to suit her height, and began.

‘Paws up anyone here who has been burgled or had their pocket picked,’ she said. The response was slow, but eventually Delirium, Balti and the Fudges raised their paws. ‘Well, as you can see, it’s not uncommon and these days it happens more and more.’ In truth, Hettie had absolutely no idea where she was going with this but she ploughed on, waiting for Bugs Anderton to signal the end of the talk and the beginning of the question and answer session. ‘The best thing to do with your valuables is to keep them safe and not let anybody know you’ve got them in the first place – that way, no one will want to steal them. If you have expensive jewellery, try not to wear it when you go out and never hide it in the same place twice as someone might be watching. A strong padlock is a very good idea if you have a shed or garage full of treasures, but you must remember where you’ve put the key or you might not be able to get in yourself.’ Hettie paused as Balti Dosh let out a loud chuckle, inspiring some nervous tittering which gave her vital seconds to beef
up her presentation. ‘Assume that every stranger you meet is a thief. Never reveal how much money you have in your purse at a shop counter, and always look behind you on a dark night to make sure no one is following you – they may attack you and leave you for dead in an alleyway. If you hear a noise in the night, stay quiet or hide under the bed until the intruder has gone – make a sound, and he may hear you and silence you for good.’

Hettie’s talk was becoming a little too dark for some of the older members, and Bugs came to everyone’s rescue – including Hettie’s – by offering a vote of thanks before signalling to Delirium Treemints to fire up the tea urn.

‘I’m sure Miss Bagshot would be happy to answer one or two questions before tea. Who would like to go first?’

Balti Dosh shot an eager paw into the air, warming to the darker subject matter. ‘Please, Miss Bagshot – is it true that you ran someone through with a kebab skewer at Malkin and Sprinkle?’

Bugs Anderton rose from her chair, unplugging the microphone with one swift movement before Hettie had a chance to respond. ‘Sadly we are out of time,’ she shouted, completely wrong-footed by her treasurer. ‘May I remind members that Miss Balti Dosh is collecting your money for the Christmas lunch? Menus have been pinned up at the back of the hall
and Marmite Sprat will be selling copies of her latest collection of
Strange But Trues
during the tea interval.’ Bugs Anderton then turned to Hettie and spoke in a much more discreet tone. ‘Miss Bagshot, please let me apologise on behalf of the Friendship Club for Miss Dosh’s inappropriate question. I can see she has upset you. I’m afraid she has a rather … er … lurid view of life. In fact, I had to ask her to give up her post as entertainments officer when she organised a trip to go behind the scenes of the crematorium. Not my idea of a day out, I must say.’

With her apology made, Bugs left the stage, signalling that the show was over. There was much scraping of chairs as the Friendship Club stood up, some breaking away to ponder the menus for their Christmas treat, others manning the cake table where Delirium was pairing off the cups and saucers ready to dispense the tea. Balti Dosh stood with cash box and clipboard, poised to receive contributions from those who were signing up for the festive lunch. More than a little shell-shocked, Hettie remained in her seat as Tilly and Jessie made their way to the front.

‘Blimey!’ Jessie said. ‘What a question to ask! Some people have no tact whatsoever.’

‘In fairness, I think she was just being enthusiastic,’ said Hettie. ‘She wasn’t to know that it was one of the worst moments of my life.’

‘The kebabs tasted good though,’ chimed in Tilly,
doing her best to lighten the situation. She succeeded, and the three friends burst out laughing.