The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency (6 page)

‘Oh my days! You girls got ya paws under de table ’ere all right! I just take meself a bacon one, as I got to get me back to Furcross in time for breakfast or Miss Marcie will dispense wid me services.’ Marley pushed
the bacon roll into her mouth, freeing her paws to fasten her coat. She downed the scolding tea that Tilly had made for her and vanished into the early morning rain, promising to catch up with Hettie later in the day.

Alone at last, Hettie and Tilly slumped over their breakfast, exhausted but energised by the night’s business and by the added bonus of a plateful of sausage rolls, which Hettie was getting through as if she hadn’t eaten for several weeks.

‘Maybe we should save a couple for Poppa?’ Tilly suggested as her friend reached out for Marley’s share. Hettie thought very carefully, studying the perfection of the sausage roll she had been about to eat; in a rare moment of willpower, she put the object of her affection back on the tray and turned her attention to the mug of tea that was now cool enough to drink. Tilly removed the sausage rolls to a place of safety and wrapped them in a napkin to give to Poppa later, then continued with her own breakfast, setting aside one of her own sausage rolls for any emergency that might occur later in the day.

Satisfied and full, Hettie sat back from the table. After a cursory wipe round her mouth and ears with paws that were still sticky with pastry, she glanced across at her friend, noticing how tired she looked. The last few days had taken their toll, and although Tilly always put a brave face on the constant pain she suffered from her arthritis, Hettie knew that disturbed
nights and cold days were not the kindest of situations. ‘I think you should stay and run the office today,’ she said. ‘I shall go to Furcross when Poppa gets here and have a word with Digger Patch. He has some explaining to do before I wrap things up with Marcia Woolcoat. You could work on our rate sheets ready to quote for the next job, and answer the phone if … er … I mean
when
it rings.’

Relieved to stay at home, Tilly brightened at the prospect of being an office cat for the day; with a sausage roll for lunch and as much tea as she could drink thanks to Poppa’s generosity, things were looking up – but there were one or two observations she felt she must make before Hettie left for Furcross. ‘I think you should have a quick look round Nurse Mogadon’s room if Miss Woolcoat will let you,’ she began, hoping that Hettie was in one of her responsive moods. ‘You might find the letter from Digger Patch that Marley mentioned, and there could be some clues to where all that money came from.’

Hettie was grateful to Tilly, although she did her best not to show it; the day ahead of her was one she would much rather have spent tucked under a blanket in her armchair as the fire crackled in the grate. The promise of winter in these late September days did very little to lift her spirits, and returning to Furcross to take up where she had left off the day before filled her with dread; even the ‘as and when’ free lunch and
tea held no joy after such a fine breakfast. But Marcia Woolcoat owed her money, and Digger Patch needed to be exposed for the unpleasant cat that he was. When the idea of becoming a private detective had struck her during a performance of the long-running play
A
Mouse Trapped
, she had never dreamt that she would have to encounter such damaged, difficult and, in some cases, dead members of society. It all seemed so simple in the theatre or on television, which reminded her to procure some batteries for the radio before Sunday, as they were looking forward to the final part of
Cat on a Hot Tinned Roof
with Elizabeth Traybake.

‘I think I’m going to have to share all I know with Marcia Woolcoat as soon as I get there,’ Hettie sighed, ‘but I suppose I should keep the money out of it, at least until we find out what her sister did to get it. It would land Marley in loads of trouble.’

Tilly nodded sagely, then had a thought of her own. ‘In proper offices they have lunch breaks. Do you think we should have a lunch break? Because today’s Friday and that’s library van day outside the Post Office.’

Hettie waited for Tilly to continue with her train of thought, assuming that it might have some bearing on the case, but as nothing further was forthcoming, she addressed the issue of staff lunch breaks. ‘I suppose twenty minutes would be allowed under extreme circumstances.’

‘Does that include the library van, or perhaps a
visit to Jessie’s Charity Shop?’ asked Tilly, mentally planning her day. ‘Because if I don’t take my books back, I’ll have to pay a fine. And if I don’t go to Jessie’s, I won’t have anything to wear for the fashion show tomorrow night. My best cardigan needs a wash after yesterday, and there isn’t anything else in my drawer that will be warm enough. I know Jessie will lend me something that I can take back on Monday.’

Hettie had quite forgotten about the prospect of a night out, and brightened instantly when she realised that she had a treat to look forward to. ‘What if we said twenty minutes for lunch and two tea breaks of ten minutes each? Do you think you could manage to fit all your errands in around that framework?’

Tilly – visibly excited at the prospect of a shopping expedition and a chance to choose three new books – agreed to Hettie’s generous arrangements, taking into account that if Hettie wasn’t in the office, she wouldn’t know how long she had been out anyway. Her friend, Jessie, loved a gossip, and you couldn’t choose three library books in a hurry; she could easily compensate for the lost time by giving their room a jolly good clean while Hettie was out of the way.

Now that the day’s labours had been allocated, the two cats moved about the room, making themselves presentable. Hettie selected what she called her warm business slacks, with a rather over-the-top striped jumper; her best mac looked as if it had been through a
war zone, so she completed her Friday look with an old army greatcoat that had seen her through many a cold winter of touring. Tilly pounced on one of her oldest but best-loved cardigans with a hood, ready for her almost all day at home; as the cardigan was several sizes too big for her, it reached the floor and, to keep the draughts out, she pulled on a pair of red woollen socks that should perhaps have been washed several weeks ago.

Before Hettie left for Furcross, she filled the coal scuttle from the coal mountain in the Butters’ backyard, another perk they were happy to offer on the understanding that Hettie counted the coal sacks when they were delivered to make sure that the order was correct; there had been some unpleasantness in the past which had resulted in the Butters withdrawing their custom from a local coal merchant who had fiddled them out of two sacks of smokeless.

Tilly waved Hettie off as she clambered into Poppa’s van. When he had pulled away, Lavender Stamp bustled out of her post office and positioned herself in the middle of the road, halting the traffic in both directions while she directed the library van into its prime position outside her premises – prime for her rather than for the avid readers, who would never have chosen to venture that far up the High Street. Lavender’s Friday takings had boomed since she wrestled the van out of the Methodist Hall car park on the premise that libraries should not be entrenched in
any particular denomination, and that her post office was neutral territory. Seeing the mobile library safely parked up, Tilly returned home to sort out her books and get her chores out of the way so that she could concentrate on the nice bits of her day.

With the exception of a Marley Toke cooked lunch, there would be no nice bits in Hettie’s day. She had resigned herself to a difficult Friday, and even Poppa cautioned her to take care as he swung out of the Furcross car park
en route
to a gas boiler that ‘had a mind of its bloody own’. He promised to return as backup in time for the Furcross midday meal, or, if things had gone badly, to give Hettie a lift home.

As Hettie approached the front door, she noticed that the usual collection of observers was missing from the bay window, and it occurred to her that the unexpected death of Nurse Mogadon might have led
the mad and bad residents to show some respect by not engaging in their usual daily pursuits. As often happened in Hettie’s world, she was wrong – and this became very clear when her polite knock was answered by Marcia Woolcoat, looking every bit the puffed-up, self-important entrepreneur she had projected in their first meeting.

‘Miss Bagshot, what a surprise! Is this a social call?’ Hettie could do nothing but blink in amazement as Marcia Woolcoat all but dragged her into the entrance hall, divested her of her greatcoat and marched her down the corridor to the parlour, slamming the door behind them. The parlour showed no signs of its former sadness: no body, no tea trolley, and – interestingly – no photographs of Marcia with her now late sister. It was as if the room had been sanitised, with all human frailty put firmly back into a drawer in Marcia Woolcoat’s sideboard.

Struggling to adjust to the new situation, Hettie eventually found some words. ‘Miss Woolcoat, I must apologise for our hurried departure yesterday, but under the … er … circumstances, my colleagues and I thought it best to leave you with your grief.’ She thought she was doing well, and added. ‘I understand that Alma Mogadon was your younger sister and …’

Without warning, Marcia Woolcoat sprang at Hettie, forcing her back into an armchair. ‘My relationship with her has nothing to do with you!’ she
hissed. ‘There are family matters to deal with, but I won’t be needing a detective to solve those.’ Regaining her composure, Marcia sat down on the sofa opposite Hettie and, in a softer tone, began a more rational response. ‘My sister and I hardly knew each other. I gave her the opportunity to come and work at Furcross because she was a good nurse and shared my ideals regarding the kind and thoughtful ending of lives that had run their course. The fact that she chose to end her own life in such a public and dramatic way, having clearly squandered the trust I invested in her regarding three of my A-list clients, leaves me to deduce that she was entirely unsuitable for the job.’

This was Hettie’s make-or-break moment, and she grasped it with both paws. ‘I appreciate your disappointment in Nurse Mogadon’s behaviour, but some information has come to light regarding a threatening letter sent to her, which may well be the reason she took her own life. She had discovered that one of your residents has been stealing from the coffins in your burial area, and I have reason to believe that her discovery is linked to the missing bodies.’ Hettie was pleased with her phrasing, and – in her opinion – she sounded every bit the detective, but Marcia Woolcoat had seen a glimmer of redemption for her sister and waded in.

‘What are you trying to say, Miss Bagshot? That my sister … I mean, Nurse Mogadon, was innocent? And
who is this resident? And what did the letter say?’

There were a number of questions that needed answers but – remembering Poppa’s advice to proceed with caution – Hettie decided to keep her cards close to her tabby chest and broach the subject of money before more revelations were shared. ‘I need to establish some facts before I’m able to answer your questions. That will require further investigation, which I am prepared to do if you are happy to continue with our financial arrangement. I have been working on the case now for three days and most of last night, and my operatives and I have managed to locate, collect and reinter Misses Vita, Virginia and Pansy to their rightful resting places. Our labours have paid off so far, but any further investigations leading to what I call “nailing the case” will require another payment on account.’

With a barely noticeable nod, Marcia Woolcoat conceded that a further payment was due and stretched out for the biscuit tin that had obligingly paid Hettie’s rent earlier in the week. ‘Will another three pounds be acceptable? I find myself a little short of ready funds, and would have to visit the bank if you needed more at the moment. I should tell you, though, that I am expecting some definite results for my money.’

Hettie took the notes eagerly and folded them twice to fit into the front pocket of her business slacks. ‘Thank you, Miss Woolcoat. I assure you that the case is becoming clearer to me as we speak, but I will need
your permission to search your sis … er … Nurse Mogadon’s private room, and, after lunch, I will need to speak with one or two of your residents before reporting my findings to you.’ Hettie raised the topic of lunch as the smell of curry flooded her senses and lifted her spirits; a hot meal delivered via Marley Toke’s ladle was definitely something to look forward to.

Marcia sat in silent contemplation for a moment or two, then rose from her sofa. ‘Follow me, Miss Bagshot. I’ll show you to the staff quarters and leave you to your work. Most of the residents are out this morning, as Mr Slack avails us of his minibus on Fridays to enable them to go shopping. They were keen to buy new outfits for the dinner and fashion show at Malkin and Sprinkle tomorrow night, but they’ll all be back for lunch so you may speak with them after that. I need to stress that any further disruption to their routine is by no means beneficial to the peaceful life we are able to offer them here at Furcross.’

Hettie felt another mission statement on the way and decided to move things along by opening the door to allow Marcia Woolcoat to sail off down the corridor. The aroma of Marley Toke’s dish of the day had become almost unbearable by the time they reached the kitchen block, and they found Marley sitting astride an old milk churn peeling a mountain of sweet potatoes.

‘Ah, Marley – I wonder if I could borrow you for
a moment? Miss Bagshot wishes to have a look at Nurse Mogadon’s room. Would you be kind enough to show her the way and return the key to me when she is finished?’ She thrust a key into Marley’s paw, turned on her heel and bustled back down the corridor before Marley had a chance to respond.

Wiping her paws on her apron, Marley watched Marcia’s progress until she reached the door to her parlour at the end of the hallway. ‘It’s a black day for her, Miss Hettie. She don’t know how to feel. Her world’s come down on her like a ton a mangos from de sky, an’ she blamin’ Alma for it all. How we gonna fix this?’

Hettie, eyeing up the vat of curry bubbling away happily on the stove, knew that the pressure was on for her to solve the case to the satisfaction of her paying client; if that meant being a little creative with the truth, then so be it. ‘I think we have to keep the ageing mother cat story to ourselves for now,’ she said, watching with admiration as Marley hauled a batch of freshly made samosas out of the oven. The golden brown triangles glistened as Marley removed them one by one to the warming cabinet by the serving hatch, which was currently closed. Although Tilly hated curry, she was very partial to what she called ‘an Indian turnover’, and Hettie made a mental note to make sure she took one home for her friend’s supper.

‘I tink you be right dere, Miss Hettie, but dis money
in me tin – dat’s worryin’ me. It should be Miss Marcie’s now Moggys’ gone, and de old mother cat should
know
she’s gone.’ Marley finished her task with the samosas, handing Hettie a sample to try. She gave the curry an aggressive stir before the two cats left the kitchen through the back door and headed out across a small yard, peppered with terracotta pots and boasting large quantities of catnip ripe for harvest. ‘Dem’s me ’erbs. Dem’s magic for me cookin’, and me got lots more dryin’ in me pantry for de winter.’ Hettie spluttered on her very hot samosa at the abundance of not-quite-legal plants which were engulfing the small courtyard, and wondered how Marcia Woolcoat would react to a raid on her premises. Catnip was an indulgence that most enjoyed and very few talked about. It offered a serenity of mind that didn’t conform with the hustle and bustle of everyday life, and consequently someone had decided to ban it. Like most laws, the decision was viewed, talked about and then ignored, and the adult population made up its own mind. Marley Toke, on acquiring the position of Head of Catering at Furcross, had decided to import a particularly happy strain of catnip seed from her homeland; it had been keeping the residents happy for some time, as the herb found its way into most dishes, and those who preferred to be miserable simply avoided any of the dishes prefixed with the word ‘Jamaican’.

As Hettie took in the abundance of Marley’s kitchen
garden, she recalled an incident on one of her summer tours. She had been making her way to the stage across a sea of festivalgoers when she encountered Marley’s smoking tent and allowed herself a small pipe before going on to perform her ‘blood and thunder’ set. Leaving the tent, she noticed that the grass and trees had taken on a rainbow hue; by the time she reached the stage and reunited herself with her band and her twelve-string guitar, her cat’s-eye view of life had become almost too colourful. Striking up a medley of Scottish and Irish jigs, played a little faster than usual, she moved on to her current crowd-pleaser – a long and bloody murder ballad in which a noble cat kills his wife and her lover with a broad sword. The song progressed well to the middle of the story, but Hettie’s twelve string began to fight back after a rather ambitious sequence of chords that she had made up on the spot; bewildered, the rest of the band continued with the original version and it took some time for Hettie to get back on course. Seeing her distress, Poppa mouthed the first line of the next verse at her from behind one of the monitor wedges in front of the stage, and she eventually brought the song to its bloody conclusion some twenty minutes later, much to the joy and relief of her fans. In the cold light of day, Hettie promised herself never to indulge prior to a performance again and decided to drop that particular piece from future gigs, just to be on the safe side.

Pulling herself back to the present she observed a single-storey, brick-built structure on the other side of the yard. A notice on the door identified it as Furcross Hospital Wing, a rather grand statement considering that the small building also managed to house private bedsitters for the late Nurse Mogadon and the very much alive Marley Toke. Marley pulled open the outer door and led the way past a number of rooms to the bottom of the hallway. Stopping at the final door, she withdrew the key from her apron pocket and hesitated for a moment before unlocking it.

Alma Mogadon lay in her bed, as if she had simply forgotten to get up that day. To see the corpse again so soon shocked Hettie, and she nervously picked samosa crumbs off her striped jumper. Noticing her distress, Marley switched on a table lamp, instantly giving the room a less gloomy appearance. They made a mutual decision to keep the curtains closed – out of respect, and because Hettie had spotted Digger Patch lurking on a bench outside the nurse’s window.

‘If you needs me to stay, I will,’ Marley said, tidying Alma Mogadon’s bedclothes around her as if she were tucking her in for the night. ‘Me sang her soul to a better place yesterday, so she not ’ere any more. Just what we packaged in, dat’s all dere is ’ere in de bed. Miss Marcie, she still decidin’ what to do wid de body.’

After the events of the past few days, Hettie couldn’t help but think that Alma Mogadon’s body was much
safer in her own bed than in a casket at the mercy of Digger Patch. Holding that thought, she waved Marley off back to her kitchen and scanned the little room for a place to start her search. In all the detective films she had watched with Tilly, a room search was usually done in quite an aggressive manner, often beginning with the door kicked in to gain entry, then followed by the systematic destruction of furniture, floorboards, mattresses and anything that could be pulled off the walls. Admittedly, the incumbent was usually absent while the search was carried out, and Hettie felt that a velvet paw approach was more appropriate in the presence of the dead nurse, whether her soul had departed via Jamaican Airways or not.

Starting with the bedside table, she gently worked her way through Alma Mogadon’s life. Mercifully, the nurse had not been a hoarder of unnecessary things, but there were personal treasures that – now she was no longer alive – seemed meaningless to an outsider: a pebble from a beach; a conker from an autumn; a small linen bag of brightly coloured marbles; a sketchbook which testified to happy days doodling in the sun. Hettie’s mind wandered again into her own past, stored away in a somewhat haphazard fashion in the small shed by the Butters’ vegetable plot: her neglected guitar; boxes of her albums; posters and photographs of a life that seemed to belong to someone else. If she no longer valued her achievements, what would happen to them
all when she was gone? Hettie began to understand a little better why Marcia Woolcoat buried her residents with their prized possessions; better that way than bundled into a dustbin bag and buried in a forgotten hole in the earth. It made Digger Patch’s grave thefts even more despicable – no doubt he cast off anything of real sentimental value before selling the good stuff. Hettie found herself almost looking forward to her interview with the deposed celebrity gardener.

She had left looking under the bed until last, mainly because of the body lying on it. The room had become almost tomb-like as she worked her way round it and she had, in her imagination, convinced herself that the bed held secrets that only she was destined to discover – if she could be brave enough to go there. She was not disappointed. Lifting the bedspread and folding it back across Alma Mogadon’s body, Hettie lay on the floor and reached under the bed for a shoebox covered in dust. Even to her untrained eye, it had not been opened for some time. Then came the box file, which interested her more as it had recently been dragged through the dust under the bed, its contents obviously viewed or added to within the last few weeks. Opening the file, her attention was instantly drawn to a letter, addressed by hand and kept in place by the spring inside the box. There had been no real attempt to hide it, and it was clearly the most recent addition to
a number of similar letters written in the same paw. Not wishing to linger any longer than she had to with her very silent companion, Hettie put the boxes on the table by the lamp and opened the letter that had caught her attention. It was from Digger Patch, short and very much to the point: