The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency (5 page)

‘I’m not sure where any of this leaves us,’ observed Hettie, picking a stray currant off Poppa’s windscreen. ‘Four dead cats, three of them half-skinned and one of them confessing to God knows what in connection with the other three; a home full of barking mad elderly cats; a cook in some sort of Voodoo trance; and Marcia Woolcoat in no condition to settle up for as much as a paper clip.’

‘It’s a bit of a bugger,’ agreed Tilly. ‘We might have bitten off more than we can chew. Maybe we should quit while we’re losing and go on to the next case.’

‘Yes, but that’s the point – we don’t have another case to go on to. I don’t see what choice we have but to push on and try and make sense of it all. We obviously need a plan.’

‘Well, for a start we need teabags,’ piped up Tilly, doing her best to be positive.

‘My shout.’ Poppa shot through a set of red lights, bringing the transit to a shuddering halt outside the entrance to Malkin and Sprinkle’s food hall. ‘I’ve got to get a pie for tea anyway, and the Butters will have shut by now. Keep an eye on the van. I’ll be back in a tick.’

He forced the driver’s door open into a crowd of unsuspecting shoppers and headed for the grocery department. Hettie noticed that a ham sandwich had made its bid for freedom from one of his overall pockets, and she was about to retrieve it from the pavement when Oralia Claw’s nail van loomed out of nowhere, mounting the pavement and squashing the sandwich under one of its front wheels. The destruction of the sandwich was eclipsed by Cocoa Repel’s ungainly exit from Oralia’s passenger seat, at which point a small crowd gathered, proffering bits of paper and anything else they could find to carry off the designer’s signature. Hettie instantly adopted her surveillance position, glancing into the rear-view mirror until Tilly gently pointed out that all the action was taking place in front of them, and they watched, transfixed, as the sleek, beautiful chocolate cat draped herself across the bonnet of the van, chatting to her public and giving out leaflets for her big event. Under the weight of boxes and rails full of Cocoa Repel’s latest collection, Oralia Claw staggered from the back of her van to the trade entrance of Malkin and Sprinkle. Unlike her companion, Oralia had to work at being beautiful: her pinched, black-and-white striped face and thin, under-developed body gave her a snake-like appearance, but her nails were immaculate and her fur shone like glass.

Oralia Claw had fallen on her paws the day she met Cocoa Repel at Furcross. Cocoa had dropped in on the off chance that her retired movie star mother would smile financially on her latest scheme, and had that afternoon walked away with a merger that suited all concerned. Oralia had taken care of Marilyn Repel’s fur and nails for some time, and her weekly visits to Furcross were much looked forward to, especially since she had branched out into the world of accessories and was now able to tempt her clients with leg warmers, hats, gloves and handbags, as well as established beauty treatments. She had converted an old garage at the rear of her premises in the High Street and, on quiet days, would close her shop and take herself off to what she liked to call her ‘back place’ to ‘knock up a bit of stock’.

Cocoa Repel had built up a very successful fashion emporium on the east coast, mostly due to the constant flow of her mother’s fortune. On the day she met Oralia, she had been looking to expand her options into ‘off-the-peg, one-size-fits-all’ couture, and the two had swapped visions over a pot of Marley Toke’s Jamaican coffee. In the end, Oralia agreed to extend her ‘back place’ to accommodate Cocoa’s new design studio and perfumery, and was offered in exchange the chance to feature her own handiwork at some exclusive fashion events.

It was obvious to any onlooker that Cocoa wore
the leg warmers in this particular venture, and that Oralia – still staggering under the burden of Saturday evening’s extravaganza – was not so much the silent partner as the put-up and shut-up end of the business. The Malkin and Sprinkle event was the pinnacle of Oralia Claw’s achievements so far and, as a gust of wind picked her and the large box she was carrying up into the air, dashing them both against the department store’s electrical and homeware window, she had no choice but to accept that there was no gain without pain.

Hettie and Tilly did their best to suppress peals of laughter as the comedy unfolded in front of them, along with an assortment of chiffon scarves that had escaped from the crumpled box and wrapped themselves around lamp posts and passers-by. Cocoa managed to disengage herself from her fan base and totter on overambitious heels to where Oralia lay sprawled on the pavement; she made encouraging noises but offered no physical support, and Poppa emerged from the food hall just in time to pick up the pieces. Abandoning his shopping, he hauled the nail bar hostess to her feet while a large gathering of shoppers danced round the box, trying to catch what was left of its contents.

‘It’s just like watching one of those contemporary dance things,’ observed Tilly, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘You know the sort of thing – lots of leaping about in coloured tights and floaty things with no one
in the audience knowing when to clap.’

‘More like the dying swan from where I’m sitting,’ Hettie said.

Poppa extricated himself from the ongoing situation, rescued his shopping and climbed back into the transit as both Mr Malkin and Mr Sprinkle appeared on the pavement to add to the commotion, accompanied by Lotus Ping and the store’s first-aid box.

‘Blimey!’ he said, tossing the biggest box of teabags he could find over to Tilly. ‘It’s worse than the artists’ bar on Folk Festival Sunday out there. I think we should turn up for this show on Saturday. It promises to be the gig of the century, and we’ve got free tickets to a sit-down dinner before the cabaret starts. If Oralia Claw’s doing the choreography, that’s bound to be a winner.’

Leaving the chaos behind, Poppa drove Hettie and Tilly home and arranged to pick them up the following morning for a ‘see how the land lies’ visit to Furcross. The three friends were tired and hungry. In spite of the recent merriment, the day had been a difficult one – and, for Nurse Mogadon and Marcia Woolcoat, a very sad one. Hettie knew that they were no closer to solving the case, if there had ever been a case in the first place, and Tilly was right: it had to be an inside job, especially now that there was a confession of sorts from the nurse in charge of dispatching the missing cats. And what was Marcia
Woolcoat’s role in all this? Perhaps tomorrow would supply some long-overdue answers, not to mention a hard cash payment for services so far rendered; in the meantime, there was a hearty supper and a warm fire to look forward to, and Hettie satisfied herself that the day would end far better than it had begun. Unless you were Nurse Mogadon, of course.

The fire had died down long before the hammering began, and it was Tilly’s urgent tugging at her blanket that finally woke Hettie from a dream in which a giant chicken pie was about to eat her. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ she snapped as the hammering got louder.

‘There’s someone at the back door,’ said Tilly, dragging Hettie’s blanket off her and forcing a dressing gown into her stomach. ‘You’ll have to go or the noise will wake the Butters and we’ll be out on our ear. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Hurry up!’

Hettie threw her dressing gown on with very little
ceremony and lurched towards the door, kicking what was left of her milky bedtime drink down the front of Tilly’s pyjamas. As she hurried along the corridor to the source of the hammering, a light illuminated the Butters’ staircase and the sisters appeared on the top landing in matching monogrammed nylon nighties, their long hair restricted by a battalion of curlers and grips. ‘Don’t worry!’ she shouted up the stairs, seeing the alarm on her landladies’ faces. ‘I’m … er … expecting a parcel.’

She congratulated herself for her quick thinking as the Butters shuffled back into their flat, unconvinced but satisfied that the assault on their back door would soon be over. The hammering continued, and Hettie hurled the door open so suddenly that the final blow hit her squarely on the chin. Marley Toke – soaked from the overnight rain – fell over the threshold. The momentum – and Marley’s weight – propelled the two cats backwards, crushing Tilly who was using Hettie as a deflector shield against the unknown caller. Marley hauled herself up to allow Hettie enough room to get to her feet, and the bundle of wet cat fur eventually sorted itself out. Tilly, a little shaken, crawled away from the scrum to lick her arthritic paws.

Leading the way back to their room, Hettie shut the door, relieved to return to the privacy and sanctuary of home. Tilly, still rubbing one of her paws, put the kettle on and offered Marley her own blanket, as
Hettie encouraged the fire into life with a violent prod and a few small bits of coal. Grateful for the warmth and too upset to speak, Marley sobbed quietly by the fire while Tilly poured hot tea into three mugs, and Hettie – realising there were issues to address – ransacked Tilly’s cardigan pockets and her own best mac for the ham, cheese and biscuits procured from the Furcross dining room. It seemed a very long time ago now, but the ham had held up well and the cheese was recognisable; only the biscuits were shadows of their former selves. As luck would have it, Hettie spotted a number of unclaimed custard creams under the staff sideboard and blew the dust off before adding them to the impromptu feast.

Tilly’s hot tea revived Marley’s spirits in no time. As the flames began to climb up the chimney breast, her sobs subsided and the three cats stared into the fire, waiting for the revelations to begin. With nothing forthcoming, Hettie reached for a slice of ham and folded it into her mouth. Tilly was making inroads into the cheese, and Marley – grateful for the hot tea – absent-mindedly began to dunk a custard cream.

The silence was finally broken by Tilly, feeling the need to move things along before Hettie went back to sleep. She grasped the nettle and began. ‘What can have happened to bring you out on such a nasty night?’ She glanced at Hettie, who was finishing off the boiled ham. ‘I’m not sure if it’s very late or very early.’

The Butters’ bread ovens roared into life. Marley lifted her head and trained her large brown tear-filled eyes first on Tilly, then on Hettie. ‘I don’t know where to start, but I tink de best place is wid poor Moggy. She told me tings she kept from Miss Marcie, ’cos Miss Marcie, she been so good to her and she didn’t want no upset.’

Hettie moved closer to the fire with a knowing nod. ‘Yes, we could see how sad Miss Woolcoat was at the death of her … er … friend. They were very close – that was obvious.’

‘Oh my days, Miss Hettie! Not close in dat way! They was sisters, bless you. When Miss Marcie come up wid her winnins and bought Furcross, she gave her sister Alma a job nursin’ an’ all dat sorta ting, and changed her name to Mogadon so no one would know they was family. You see, dem been estranged for years on account of de mother hatin’ Miss Marcie and preferrin’ Moggy. Dat mother – she done nasty tings to Miss Marcie, keepin’ her locked up, beatin’ her, treatin’ her real bad, and when little Alma come along a few years later, she turned Miss Marcie out and showered her best love on her new girl kitten. Poor Moggy was torn between her old mother cat and her sister, whom she had come to know and love, but she knew dat if Miss Marcie found out she was still seein’ de old mother, she would send her away. So she kept secrets.’

‘Which she shared with you?’ said Tilly eagerly, getting up to fill the kettle for another round of tea.

Marley wiped a set of large tears from her eyes as she handed her mug to Tilly and continued with her story. ‘Moggy – she been sad about her old mother. She told me de old cat was livin’ in one of dem hostel places in a bad way, and she had asked Miss Marcie if she could come and live wiv dem at Furcross for her last few years. Miss Marcie got very angry and said Moggy would have to cut de old mother off if she wanted to stay at Furcross and do her nursin’, so she pretended to do as her sister say – but all de time she was takin’ extra jobs and savin’ to get de mother cat a little hut by the sea without tellin’ Miss Marcie.’

As fascinating as the life story of Marcia Woolcoat and her sister was, Hettie couldn’t help but wonder where all this was leading. The clock on the staff sideboard suggested that it was four o’clock in the morning; the coal bucket was nearly empty, the boiled ham was a memory, and Marley seemed to have settled into a narrative which would fill the
Book at Bedtime
slot for six weeks. Remembering that she was now a detective, she retied her dressing gown cord and sat up a little straighter in her armchair. Just as she was about to take control of the situation, Marley reached into her capacious tote bag and took out a tea caddy; opening it with a flourish, she spread its contents across the rug in front of the fire.

Whatever Hettie had intended to say, the moment was lost, and she and Tilly gasped in unison. Tilly was the first to contribute something more coherent. ‘I’ve never seen so much money in all my life! Is it absolutely real?’

Hettie eyed the bundles of notes as if they were burning a hole in the carpet. She looked across at Marley with renewed interest. ‘Oh, Miss Hettie! I know what yer tinkin’ but I ain’t robbed no bank. It belong to Moggy. She ask me to hide it in me pantry at Furcross till she had enough for de old mother cat’s place by the sea, but it’s too much money ’ere in me tin. She must have got some big money before she died – so what sorta job pays dis sorta cash? She got ’erself in somethin’ bad to do with Miss Pansy and her friends, dat’s what I tinkin’ – and you and Miss Tilly and de Poppa boy has got to get to de bottom of it.’

Marley subsided into a fresh round of sobbing as Tilly gathered the money up from the rug, placing it in bundles of ten for an easy count up. The total was beyond her wildest dreams and, in spite of Marley’s current unhappy state, she found herself daydreaming as to how she might spend it if it were hers. A TV, obviously, a wardrobe full of warm cardigans, a huge packet of crisps that she didn’t have to share, enough coal to keep the fire going day and night, an armchair like Hettie’s. The list was
getting longer and longer, and it was a few moments before she realised that Hettie had been speaking for some time and that Marley Toke had stopped crying to listen.

‘It’s very clear that Nurse Mogadon took her own life because she felt guilty – the note she left her sister confirms that. But what did she feel guilty
about
? Whatever she did, she was paid a lot of money for it – but why, and by whom? And what made her kill herself in the end?’

‘That’s easy – someone must have found her out,’ Tilly said, poking the fire back to life and adding some of Hettie’s business cards to the flames for extra heat. ‘Maybe it was blackmail,’ she suggested, remembering a similar case fictionalised by Polly Hodge, one of her favourite authors; as she recalled, it had been something to do with a nurse and a funnel. ‘We need to go back to the beginning and work out who stole the bodies in the first place, then dumped them at Malkin and Sprinkle. Do you think Alma Mogadon was capable of doing that?’ She addressed her question directly to Marley, who sat shaking her head, her large hoop earrings rotating like Catherine wheels.

‘No, Miss Tilly, I can’t believe she would do such a ting – but you talkin’ blackmail give me an idea. Dat day, before she died, she told me de Digger man had sent her a nasty letter.’

‘You mean Digger Patch, the gardener?’ Hettie interrupted, cramming the banknotes back into Marley’s tea caddy.

‘Yes. She said he had a racket goin’ wid de coffins and she had told him to stop it or she would tell Miss Marcie. He was stealin’ de treasures out of de boxes before he put de dirt on, grave robbin’ she called it, so he sent her a threatenin’ letter and I know she was frightened, but it slipped me mind, what wid her bein’ dead.’

In spite of the rain beating down outside, Hettie was suddenly aware of a blue sky moment: if Digger Patch was a grave robber, it was only a very small leap from bits of jewellery to whole bodies. As far as she was concerned, it was definitely case solved this time, and – with very little thought for the vast amount of money nestling in Marley Toke’s tea caddy or what Nurse Mogadon might have done to earn it – she roused herself from her armchair, ready to face what she was now sure would be a triumphant day for the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency.

The smell of freshly baked bread filled the cats’ nostrils and the Butters’ bread ovens warmed their little room, taking the edge off the cold as the fire whimpered and died in the grate. Tilly – still troubled by the tea caddy full of money and Hettie’s misplaced euphoria regarding Digger Patch – busied herself in collecting mugs and folding blankets, and Marley was just
struggling to her feet when there was a discreet tap at the door. Hettie approached nervously, prepared to receive a verbal termination of their tenancy, but instead a tray of hot sausage rolls and three bacon baps was thrust into her paws. Beryl Butter didn’t stay long enough to be thanked, and strode off to help Betty wrestle another batch of tiger loaves from oven number one.

Betty and Beryl Butter were from Lancashire. They believed firmly in a full stomach being the secret to a long and happy life, and had practised this philosophy since they were old enough to roll out pastry on their mother’s kitchen table. Bertha Butter had raised her twin girls to delight in the art of food and had educated them in the sheer joy of pies, cakes and pastries, as well as reading them the occasional bedtime story by Catrin Cookpot, a local historical novelist whose take on the poor and needy gave Betty and Beryl a real sense of community spirit. And so it was that – when their mother shuffled off to the great kitchen range in the sky – the Butter twins moved south and invested their small inheritance in what was then a run-down high street bakery. Within weeks they had become royalty, and their bloomers, splits and baps expanded into pies and fancy cakes as their clientele grew in size and physical proportion.

The fact that the Butters had offered Hettie their ground floor storeroom as a bolt hole when her ‘shed with a bed’ accommodation was reduced to kindling in
the great storm was not entirely an act of charity: both Beryl and Betty were very aware of her role in getting their pies into the
Tastes Lovely
range at Malkin and Sprinkle. The story goes that Hettie had popped into the department store’s food hall one lunchtime and had purchased a steak and kidney pie, only to discover that the said pie contained neither steak nor kidney but a surfeit of gristle and damp pastry. As she was at the time suffering from an extreme lack of funds, she felt it her duty to complain, and returned the pie to the food counter, pointing out to the assistant cowering behind her bacon slicer that the pie in no way resembled anything that could be described as edible, and that if they needed an example of a proper pie they should look no further than the Butters in the High Street. Listening to the one-sided exchange was Mr Malkin himself, who instructed his assistant, Miss Doris Lean, to remove the pies from sale and offer Hettie anything her heart desired from their cooked meat range. The matter dealt with, he strode off to collect his hat and coat and was later seen devouring several pies in the vicinity of the Butters’ shop before putting in a substantial daily order to be sold at Malkin and Sprinkle all year round. This new commercial enterprise had lifted the Butters into the mainstream and, as Doris Lean pointed out to Betty in Lavender Stamp’s post office queue a few weeks later, it was all down to one of Hettie Bagshot’s tantrums.

If Hettie thought for a moment that the Butters would
consider throwing her out on her ear, she was – as she often was – very much mistaken, even with midnight callers and irregular rent payments. Later, when Tilly was taken in under the same roof, she too had been made welcome and was viewed by Beryl and Betty as a stabilising presence in Hettie’s somewhat erratic life. The rude awakening at three o’clock in the morning and the subsequent sobbing from the mystery visitor had led the Butters to consider that a sticking plaster for three was required; once the day’s baking was underway, a tray was hurriedly prepared in the hope that a hot sausage roll could heal any wound.

Hettie swung round with the gift, narrowly missing Tilly who was once again keeping a low profile in the folds of her dressing gown. ‘Stick that kettle on – breakfast has just arrived!’ she said, making no effort to contain her excitement.

‘Why would they do that?’ Tilly asked, as she spread the cloth on Hettie’s desk, ready to receive the Butters’ treats. ‘I thought they were going to throw us out. I started thinking about where we could go and how happy we’ve been here, but instead they’ve brought us lovely things. Come on, Marley! Tuck in while I make the tea. There’s one bacon and two sausage rolls each.’