The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency (17 page)

Tilly went to find Marley, knowing that Alma needed a friend to keep an eye on her, and Hettie followed the former nurse at a discreet distance, making sure that there were no further dramas to come. Alma stood by her sister’s grave and sobbed for several minutes, then – realising she wasn’t alone – turned to Hettie, her eyes still full of tears. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to me,’ she admitted quietly. ‘It all got too much, being caught between my mother and my sister, and used by them both. I thought I loved my mother but I know now that I just felt sorry for her. As for Marcia, it was her guilt that brought us together – she wanted to make up for what she did to Buffy.’ The tears came again and Alma’s whole body shook as the years of pain and deceit engulfed her. Hettie found it difficult to watch as her features were twisted and distorted by
anguish and sorrow, and she moved closer to help as Alma fell in front of Marcia’s grave and cried to the heavens: ‘Forgive me!’

The heavens responded with a deluge. Hettie made her move and gathered up what was left of Alma Mogadon, guiding her across the lawn and back into the dining room. The rain seemed to bring her to her senses: as Marley took charge of her friend and led her away, Alma turned back to Tilly and Hettie. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I will never forget what you did for me today.’

Poppa chose that moment to enter by the French windows, looking like a drowned rat. ‘Blimey! No one’s answering the front door so I skipped round the back. I’ve just dropped Jessie off. Anything happen while I was away?’

Tilly giggled for the first time that day, and Hettie – retrieving the three slices of chocolate cake from the table by the French doors and eyeing up the scissors in the window box – smiled. ‘I think we can honestly say that peace has finally descended on Furcross, the home for slightly older cats,’ she said. ‘Shall we pick up some fish and chips on the way home? My shout.’

I would like to thank a small but perfectly formed band of people, who have helped to give life to this book: Nicola, for patience, solidarity and love; Neil Adcock and Debbie Barker for wrapping the book in such a glorious cardigan; Alexander McCall Smith, for his good-natured response to the title; Richard Reynolds, from Heffers in Cambridge, for his unshakeable faith; Susie Dunlop and all at Allison & Busby for giving a cat a good home; and Phyllis, for her encouragement and belief throughout.

READ ON FOR A PREVIEW OF THE NEXT HETTIE BAGSHOT MYSTERY

The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency had closed early for Hallowe’en so that Hettie and Tilly could prepare their ‘spooky night in’. Tilly had spent the afternoon excavating two large pumpkins, while Hettie put the finishing touches to a talk she had been invited to give to the local Methodist group on how to keep their valuables safe. It had proved an impossible task, as all she could come up with was the suggestion of deep pockets or padlocks, but she knew that they really wanted to hear about the famous Furcross case and her heroic role in bringing justice to the small town. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough for one day,’ she said, burying her
notepad under a cushion. ‘What’s for supper? I’m starving.’

Tilly’s reply came from inside one of the pumpkins as she launched a final pawful of pale orange flesh over the side and into a bucket. ‘Beryl Butter’s Hallowe’en pie. It’s topped with a witch’s hat made of pastry and comes with an extra jug of gravy. Then we’re having Betty’s ghost and warlock tarts for afters, and I’ve got a huge bag of Malkin and Sprinkle’s toffee popcorn to eat later with the video.’

It was some time before the enthusiastic licking and chewing was replaced by conversation. Satisfied at last, Hettie sat back to take in their room, marvelling at the candle-lit pumpkins in the grate and the orange and black paper chains that hung from the picture rails. Tilly had spent a couple of hours licking and sticking the chains that morning, and had acquired a taste for the gum on the paper – so much so that a number of the strips of paper had lost their stickiness all together and had been discarded in the coal scuttle.

‘You’ve done us up a treat,’ Hettie said in a rare moment of praise, hauling herself onto her fireside armchair and settling to a leisurely cleaning of ears, paws and whiskers. ‘What have you chosen for our scary movie? You were ages in the library van. I was beginning to think that Turner Page had pressganged you into joining one of his reading groups.’

‘Actually, he was doing one of those storytelling
sessions where he dresses up and bangs a tambourine. He was surrounded by kittens and I couldn’t get to the videos until the end of the story, so I sat and listened instead. It frightened me a bit because it was a true story.’

‘Well, it can’t have been any worse than the stuff you usually read,’ said Hettie, glancing at the pile of library books on the edge of Tilly’s blanket; every one of them boasted the word ‘murder’ in the titles.

‘No, but this was different. He was telling the story of Milky Myers.’

‘Milky Myers! I haven’t heard that name for years. But it’s not really true – it’s just a spooky legend designed to stop kittens hanging round the old Peggledrip house.’

‘Ah, but it’s back in the news again. Marmite Spratt has included the story in her latest collection of
Strange But Trues
. Look – Turner Page gave me one to read.’

Hettie reached over and took the slim volume, one of many penned by the town’s local and completely self-appointed historian, whose ‘little books’ seemed to dominate any gathering where a sale could be made. The lurid cover and cheap paper seemed to add to the charm of a gazeteer bursting with incorrect facts and finished off with untrained pen and ink drawings, a sideline which the author felt compelled to include in her narrative, as she herself had drawn them. Hettie
opened the book at the contents page and noted that there were four
Strange But Trues
to choose from. The subjects had all been well thought out to capture the Hallowe’en market.

‘Just listen to this,’ she said, holding the book to the fire for more light. ‘“The Headless Cat of Sheba Gardens”, “Miss Pilchard’s Magic Letter Box”, “The Ghost of Muzzle Hill” and finally “The Legend of Milky Myers”. Who wants to know about any of those stupid tales? All it does is stir up gossip. The only strange thing about it is that anyone can be bothered to put it in a book at all.’ Hettie tossed the volume back onto Tilly’s pile of library books, looking suddenly thoughtful. She filled her catnip pipe while Tilly wrestled with the video machine which eventually sprang into life, promising a horror double bill:
The Devil Cat Rides Out
and
Don’t Look At All
, both featuring all-star casts.

‘Which one would you like first?’ Tilly asked as she fetched the tarts and the popcorn from the table.

‘The one where that dwarf cat wears a red mac,’ said Hettie, blowing smoke rings into the air and eyeing up a warlock tart.

Tilly clapped her paws with delight and fast-forwarded the tape to the second film. She put a generous lump of coal onto the fire and settled back onto her blanket to enjoy the opening titles. The film had barely established itself when Hettie – encouraged
by the catnip and a second warlock tart – interrupted her concentration. ‘So what
does
she say about Milky Myers? Have you read it?’

Tilly sat up, more interested in Hettie’s question than in the film’s gondola funeral procession. ‘I’ve had a quick flick through but Turner Page made it much more frightening. He said it all happened longer ago than any of us could remember.’

‘Well that’s a good start,’ muttered Hettie. ‘So much for a factual account if no one can remember. That smacks to me of making it up as you go along.’

Tilly ignored the interjection and continued. ‘As you said earlier, it all happened in and around the old Peggledrip house, out on the road to Much Purring on the Rug. Much Purring was a very small village in those days, and everyone knew everyone else’s business. Back then, the Myers family lived in what is now the Peggledrip house. There were five of them – Mr and Mrs Myers and their three kittens, two boy cats and one small girl. Milky was the oldest and he helped his father with his milk round, which is why they called him Milky.’

Hettie began to fidget. ‘That’s not even interesting. Get to the good bit – weren’t there lots of murders?’

‘Yes, I’m getting to that, but I thought you’d like some background on the case first.’

‘Oh look! There’s the dwarf! Nasty little creature – wait till it turns around.’

The two cats watched as the creature in the red mac ran amok. It was some time before Tilly returned to her own interpretation of the Milky Myers story, but Hettie had to agree that it was worth the wait.

‘Now where was I?’ asked Tilly, opening the toffee popcorn with such force that it scattered itself across the room. Reluctant to leave the fire, she made a mental note to gather up the stray bits in the morning and pushed on with her story as the credits rolled on
Don’t Look At All
. ‘They say that Milky was a bit touched.’

‘Who does?’ chimed in Hettie, getting irritated.

‘I just did,’ sighed Tilly, her patience wearing thin. ‘Anyway, that’s why he worked with his father. He couldn’t be trusted to behave himself.’

Wanting to comment further but realising that Tilly wouldn’t appreciate it, Hettie forced a large pawful of popcorn into her mouth and chewed as quietly as she could while her friend continued. ‘One cold October morning, Milky and his father set out with their milk float to Much Purring On the Rug and never got there, even though it was only two miles down the road. The milk float was found later that day down a farm track, with milk and broken bottles everywhere. Milky’s father lay dead on the floor with a half empty milk bottle forced into his mouth. There was no sign of Milky, and they thought he must have been kidnapped. One of the cats from Much Purring
went to the Myers house to deliver the bad news and found the kitchen door wide open. He went in and discovered Mrs Myers and two of her kittens sitting round their breakfast table, all dead with milk bottles forced into their mouths, then he ran from the house shouting “Murder!” all the way back to Much Purring on the Rug.’

Hettie really couldn’t hold herself back any longer. ‘Well, that’s just ridiculous! Why didn’t he get help? You mean to tell me that he left a dead cat in a milk float and a kitchen full of similar dead cats and ran two miles back to his village shouting murder? Who was this helpful bystander, or was it longer ago than anyone can remember?’

Tilly had to agree that the story had wandered a little in the telling over the years, but the facts of the case were no less interesting and she continued in spite of Hettie’s doubts. ‘Later that day, Milky’s aunt and uncle were also discovered in the Myers dairy at the back of the Peggledrip house, where they worked, drowned in a large milk churn with bottles shoved in their mouths. There was still no sign of Milky. The town buried its dead and searched for months and months to find Milky, who was never seen again – not until years later, anyway. A couple of kittens were playing in the garden of the empty Myers house when one of them saw a face at the window and went in to investigate. The kitten was later found dead in the
back garden with a scotch egg jammed in her little mouth. To this day, no one has ever found out what happened to Milky Myers, but on Hallowe’en his ghost returns to haunt his old house, the dairy and the farm track where the milk float was discovered. He’s also been seen in the graveyard where the Myers family was laid to rest.’

The two cats sipped cocoa thoughtfully and it was Hettie who broke the silence. ‘What I find odd is that everyone assumes that Milky Myers murdered his own family. Then we’re made to believe that he just disappeared never to be seen again except as a ghost on Hallowe’en or by a stray kitten who just happened to glance up at the window of an empty house. And Irene Peggledrip has lived in that old house for as long as I can remember – she doesn’t seem too worried about its history, in spite of her weird parties. And what about this cat from Much Purring? That’s a strange village at the best of times, full of halfwits with their trousers tied up with string. He had the opportunity to kill the whole of the Myers family and still be home in time for a big lunch. Maybe he killed Milky as well and no one has found the body or even bothered to look for it.’

‘Do you think he ate a scotch egg for lunch?’ asked Tilly, trying to keep up. ‘That would liven the evidence up a bit.’

The two friends laughed at the ridiculous turn the
story was taking, and the clock on the staff sideboard ticked towards midnight, the magical hour on Hallowe’en when the dead rise from their graves and purveyors of dark arts step out into the light. If there was any truth in the legend, Milky Myers was going to have a very busy night.

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