The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency (14 page)

For a whole week, the High Street buzzed with talk of Oralia Claw’s downfall and the scandal surrounding it. A ‘To Let’ sign went up outside the nail bar, and the occasional group of sightseers stopped to take photographs of the shopfront as a trophy of its notoriety. Tilly was mobbed by High Street gossips, out in full force for any extra tit-bits that could be spread further afield, and Jessie wore her cuts and bruises with pride as her little shop boomed with customers, all wanting to get a good look at her. She agreed with Tilly that her wrestling match with Oralia Claw had proved extremely lucrative in the scheme of things and, as an
act of reparation, Cocoa Repel had donated several rails of her now-doomed collection to be sold in the designer section. Hettie had only to venture across the road to collect her savings book to receive an impromptu round of applause from Lavender Stamp’s queue, which grew and grew like Topsy once word got out that Hettie had taken her place in it.

Mr Malkin and Mr Sprinkle sent a large hamper of food to the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency, with a ‘thank you’ note signed by both of them. It took Hettie and Tilly the best part of Friday to unpack it all, as they indulged themselves in the delights of daytime TV. Tilly had popped out to choose a video from Turner Page’s library van, only to be driven back by an inquisition that wouldn’t die down, and the telephone that never used to ring had been put out next to the Butters’ ovens in disgrace – or, in Hettie’s words, ‘because it didn’t know when to shut up’. Life was clearly not going to be the same, and Hettie and Tilly were doing their best to adjust to the fall-out of the Furcross Case, which had brought them riches as well as unlooked-for responsibilities. They had possible cases coming out of their ears, but neither of them had the heart or the inclination to follow them up. What had begun as an exciting foray into the art of detection had, in reality, turned out to be an insight into a world of obsessed, damaged, greedy cats, and – as far as Hettie could see – no real happy endings.

Saturday welcomed in a new month and, as if on
cue, the October wind gathered in strength throughout the morning. Hettie grappled with the coal scuttle as Tilly – instinctively preparing for winter – washed and pegged out all their blankets, taking advantage of the drying weather. The Butters’ small backyard opened out into a substantial plot with a path that ran its length, separating the vegetable garden from what Betty liked to call their ‘sitting out patch’; this area was laid to lawn, with a host of plants and shrubs dotted about the borders. Having delivered the coal to its place by the fire, Hettie returned to the yard and made her way up the garden to the small shed which had been offered as her personal storage area; there, she kept the trappings of her many lives, all gathered together in haste when her shed-with-a-bed was taken in the great storm. She rarely visited her shed these days. There was very little she could identify with now that her life had taken on a normality which came with age and a greater need for comfort. But today she unlocked the padlock and gently pulled the door open, experiencing some resistance from hinges that had – like Hettie – become set in their ways.

Her time capsule was piled high with what on first inspection might seem of very little value to anyone seeking treasure. But treasure there was. The musician she had been sang loud and clear from the endless mounted posters, piled high on top of each other and showing a younger self. There were boxes of albums,
all with her name stamped above the titles and offering various incarnations of her musical progression. Some had sold well; others had disappeared without a trace; but all were very much part of her journey through life. Hettie picked her way across the floor, catching the cobwebs with her paws as she went, searching in the gloom for something precious. Suddenly there it was, propped up on her old red bean bag, admittedly looking a little worse for wear but just as inviting as it had ever been: the twelve-string guitar had lain in wait for this moment and, in spite of its only possessing nine strings, Hettie embraced it. Slumping down on the bean bag, she began to tune the remaining rusty strings and tease a few random chord progressions from her old friend. She lost all track of time, and had revisited a number of her big numbers before noticing her audience. Tilly had slipped into the shed and was silently clapping her paws in appreciation of a rather lurid murder ballad. By the end of the sorry tale, she could no longer contain her delight at the impromptu performance and began to cheer, causing Hettie to break yet another string; it twanged across the shed, finally coming to rest on a full set of reindeer antlers that had been bestowed on her during her triumphant ‘Arctic Circle’ tour.

‘Oh you did make me jump! How long have you been there?’ Hettie asked, struggling to release herself from the bean bag.

‘Long enough to know that your guitar ought to come and live with us rather than gathering dust in this shed. Some of these posters would cheer up our walls, too.’ Tilly launched herself enthusiastically into the mountain of memorabilia, selecting a couple of colourful examples of Hettie caught on stage with her band. ‘We’ll ask Poppa to put them up for us next time he drops in. I think we could have a sort out in here – there’s lots of nice things we could use. That bean bag would make an extra chair, and the guitar could live on it when we’re not using it.’

Before Hettie could argue, Tilly dragged the bean bag across the floor and loaded her selection of posters onto it. She disappeared down the garden path, leaving Hettie to lock up and carry her now eight-string guitar to the relative safety of their room. It had taken her some time to revisit a past she mourned, but it had only taken Tilly five minutes to reunite her with all that was good about herself.

With the chores out of the way and Hettie’s guitar installed on its bean bag, their thoughts turned to a light lunch before afternoon tea at Furcross. There was no shopping to be done, as the contents of the Malkin and Sprinkle hamper would last them for some time, and at least that saved them from the prying eyes of weekend shoppers. She selected two tins of luxury sardines in extra tomato sauce from the hamper, and they settled to the task of opening them. Hettie’s tin
opened without incident but Tilly’s key wouldn’t turn more than halfway across, where it became stuck fast. ‘Why do they make it so difficult to open sardines?’ she asked, tugging at the key. ‘The tomato sauce ends up spraying itself everywhere. They put pilchards in a proper tin so you can use a tin opener, so why can’t they do the same with these?!’ She was getting tearful with the frustration of being able to see her sardines but not eat them, and Hettie – sensing the approaching disaster – gave Tilly hers to eat while she took up the battle between key, fish, tin and more particularly tomato sauce. When the lid finally gave way, the sauce cascaded all over Tilly, Hettie and a sizeable area of their gingham tablecloth; in fact it was several months later, when Tilly had occasion to climb on top of the filing cabinet to change a light bulb, that she finally removed the last splashes of tomato from the ceiling.

‘I think we might have to buy a car,’ said Hettie, dabbing the sauce from her fur. ‘We need to be able to get out and about under our own steam. Poppa has been wonderful, but he’s a busy plumber and he isn’t always available. I don’t think we should be seen catching buses too often – it’s not good for our image.’ The fact that Tilly was still covered almost entirely in tomato sauce had given rise to thoughts on how they should project themselves; in Hettie’s book, image was everything.

‘Cars are very expensive,’ Tilly said thoughtfully.
‘They drink lots of petrol and the old ones are always stopping whenever they feel like it. Miss Lambert had one. It was green with real leather seats and she had to wind it up. It never started on frosty mornings and she usually had to push it home. I’m not sure we’d get on with a car.’

‘But you don’t have to wind them up any more,’ Hettie argued in defence of the modern motor car. ‘They almost drive themselves these days.’

‘That’s what I mean – they do as they like,’ countered Tilly. ‘What if we wanted to go to the seaside and IT wanted to go shopping? I bet IT would win. You’re always hearing taxi drivers apologising for being late because they got lost. Well, that’s what happens with cars: they make you late because they please themselves where they go and how long it takes them. And even if you do get somewhere in a car, where do you park it? Have you seen those meters on sticks? They’re everywhere, and if you park by one of those you have to put money in it. Why would you want to do that? And if you don’t put money in it, one of those nasty know-it-all cats with a peaked cap will give you a ticket for your trouble.’

Tilly cleared away the empty tins as Hettie, feeling a little defeated, glanced through the local advertiser, now also covered in sardines and tomato sauce. One advert leapt off the page at her. ‘Well I never! Look at this! “
RECONDITIONED MOTOR BIKES AND SIDECARS
”.’
The ad went on to list a number of machines that were ‘as good as new’, finishing with a contact number and address, and it was that which made Hettie’s heart sing: ‘Enquiries c/o Hambone’s Hardware.’

Forgetting her personal war with the motor car, Tilly bounced onto the table to read over Hettie’s shoulder. ‘Ooh! I wouldn’t mind one of those. I once lived in a sidecar in a garage for three weeks until I was discovered and turned out. It was ever so cosy at night – just like having my own little place. Can we go and look at one?’

Hettie was pleased that Tilly wasn’t averse to all modes of transport, and grew quite excited at the prospect of their detective agency having wheels. ‘I’m not sure we can afford these prices, but the Hambones may be able to offer a good deal on one if we save up a bit. We could go and look at some on our way to Furcross to see if we like them, but you’ll have to get cleaned up first. You look like something from a horror film with all that red sauce everywhere.’

Tilly sprang into action, filling their sink with soapy water and scrubbing away at her fur until all traces of lunch had been removed. Hettie did the same and ten minutes later they set out down the High Street. It was a week since Meridian Hambone had been set about by the Claw brothers and Hettie had come to her rescue, but life seemed to stand still in the dusty Aladdin’s cave. Meridian sat as she always did, perched on her stool by
the till and offering toothless grins as an introduction to her emporium of domestic delights. Seeing Hettie, she let out a squawk like an old crow. ‘Gawd love us! If it ain’t me guardian angel! What brings yer in today?’

Hettie stepped forward while Tilly hovered by the watering cans, wondering if Meridian stocked a special tin opener for sardines but was too frightened to ask. ‘Well, I noticed an ad for motorbikes and sidecars in the paper and it said to contact Hambone’s. I wondered if we could have a look at them?’

Meridian displayed her very best toothless grin. ‘Them’s Lazarus’s. ’E does the bigger stuff in the yard out the back. ’E’s out there now tunin’ ’em up. You go through the shop and out the door by me ’lectrics.’

The backyard of Hambone’s was a sight to behold. On first glance it was piled high with scrap metal, but a closer inspection revealed it to be the place where new life was given to old things. There was a small caravan over in the corner which, from the signage on its window, functioned as the sales office. Hettie could see Lazarus Hambone inside with another cat and, as she and Tilly approached, he emerged with his customer, counting a wad of notes to conclude a deal. The customer left through a pair of double gates at the back of the yard and Lazarus shut them firmly behind him before returning to the office. ‘Miss Bagshot – I wasn’t expectin’ royalty today! What can I do fer the most famous cat in town? ’Cept fer Oralia Claw, that is.’

Hettie’s ears blushed at his words and Tilly – believing that Lazarus Hambone really was a giant – hid behind her. ‘We’ve come to see if you have a motorbike and sidecar that we could run about in,’ Hettie said. ‘We think it would help if we had some transport for our detective agency.’

Lazarus beamed, showing a full set of pearly white teeth that had obviously not been inherited from his mother. ‘I got just the thing! Perfect for a couple of go-getters like yerselves. Follow me.’ He led them past a mountain of exhaust pipes, old tyres and bits of engine to an area roped off from the yard’s general chaos – and there stood two neat rows of motorbikes and sidecars. They were all in various states of renovation: some waiting for handlebars, others undergoing complete paint jobs, and one looking ready and willing to take to the road. ‘This one’s a good’un. She’s got a few ’undred miles left in ’er, ideal for a first go, an’ the sidecar’s got plenty of room. Nice little runner altogether. I can just picture you two solvin’ yer crimes in this.’

Tilly was impressed. She circled the machine, giving out little murmurs of appreciation as she admired the contrast of the shiny black mudguards against the bright red body of the sidecar, then marvelled at the bike’s highly polished chrome and her own satisfied reflection in it. Hettie stood back and watched, too frightened to go anywhere near a thing of such beauty which she
knew they could never afford. Her disappointment grew as Lazarus – seeing that Tilly was well and truly hooked – moved to pull back the lid on the sidecar as the final clincher on the deal. ‘This is far too grand for us, Mr Hambone,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Do you have anything a little more … er … rough and ready?’ She saw Tilly’s face fall but knew that the only sensible thing to do was to bring the dream to an end before the interior of the sidecar was revealed.

Lazarus Hambone had been selling motorbikes long enough to know that ‘no’ usually meant ‘yes’ with a little extra push here and there. He would always be grateful to Hettie for saving his mother from the Claw brothers, and it was time to put his bargaining skills to work. ‘I tell yer what I’ll do. I’ll take yer out for a spin on ’er, so’s you can get the feel of it, and if yer still likes what yer see, I’ll work out a plan so’s yer can pay me a bit at a time. I’m not in any hurry for the money and I can offer yer a very good price. I owes yer, and a Hambone always settles ’is debts.’