The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency (9 page)

Tilly knew that whatever had befallen Hettie at Furcross, she would have had one of her ‘difficult’ days, so she made all the homecoming preparations before setting to work on the agency’s rate sheet. A battle of wits between Tilly and the typewriter had been raging for some time when Hettie finally fell through the door. The problem – as far as Tilly could see – was that the typewriter had been blessed with a mind of its own, and that particular mind was a tetchy and spiteful one. She had done her best to make friends with it, coaxing it into life by gently tapping its keys and not being too harsh with the carriage return lever, but all she got for her consideration was badly spelt
words, numbers where there should have been letters, and holes in the paper where the arms had pressed too hard. To make matters worse, it had decided to unravel its ribbon, covering everything in red and black ink, including Tilly. If the typewriter had been given a voice, it might have suggested that Tilly’s paws were simply too wide for the job and that it could not be expected to choose from three letters every time she hit a key; it might also have gone on to point out that the typist was in charge of the spelling, and that a typewriter’s job was merely to supply the letters and the mechanical action to get them onto the page. Mercifully, the machine had
not
been given a voice, and Tilly remained oblivious to her shortcomings, assuming that she and this particular wordsmith simply did not get on. It was only in the last few minutes that the machine had seen fit to spew out something vaguely recognisable as a price list. As she appraised her ink-stained offering, even Tilly had to admit that it needed a bit more work, but she had made a start and that – in her book – was the main thing.

With much tugging and pushing, the typewriter was returned to its place under the desk, which was halfway through its transformation into supper table when Hettie stumbled over the threshold under the weight of her day. Tilly skipped to the door and helped her off with her coat, seeing instantly that the visit to Furcross had offered a number of challenges; by the tired look on Hettie’s face, a good supper was needed as soon as
possible. She put a match to the fire, which responded instantly, and Hettie – not wishing to crumple her warm business slacks – exchanged them for her dressing gown, pulling the samosa and the cheque out of the pocket before abandoning her day clothes in the second drawer of the filing cabinet. The cheque was tossed like an old shopping list onto the staff sideboard and the samosa – a little worse for wear but still recognisable – was placed on Tilly’s fireside blanket for later. Tilly busied herself setting out their supper, keeping half an eye on her friend’s silent, methodical dismantling of her day; she was desperate to hear the latest news on the case, but she knew that Hettie would speak when she was ready.

She had to wait longer than she hoped: Hettie climbed into her armchair and, with a grateful sigh and a yawn that threatened to consume the hearth, fell into a deep sleep as the fire filled their little room with the shadows of dancing flames. Hunger woke her eventually and, with one eye open, she noticed that Tilly had changed into her pyjamas and was resting on her blanket by the fire with her nose stuck firmly in the latest Polly Hodge mystery. A slight turn of the head told her that the gingham tablecloth on her desk was laden with an untouched supper and, for the first time that day, all seemed to be well.

‘What’s in the pies?’ asked Hettie, stretching her tabby paws out in front of her.

Tilly jumped, startled at the break in the silence,
and tore herself away from a rather nasty knife murder that Polly Hodge had seen fit to include in chapter two. ‘I went for the award-winning sausage and onion, but then I thought – what if we don’t like it? So I got your favourite steak and kidney as well. And there’s cream horns for pudding.’ Hettie purred with satisfaction, and gave her paws and face a cursory lick as Tilly added some coal to the fire and put the kettle on. She struggled from her chair and cut the two pies in half; examining the sausage and onion filling, and deciding that it looked very good indeed, she put half of each pie on the two plates that Tilly had laid out for them. As they ate, she went through the events of the day, encouraged by Tilly’s occasional gasps and mild expletives to wring every ounce of drama out of what would always be known as the ‘Furcross Case’. When the pies had been dispatched, they returned to their fireside to suck the life out of Beryl Butter’s cream horns and Hettie loaded her catnip pipe, settling back in her chair to wait for Tilly’s questions and for the wisdom which she would no doubt bring to the mystery. Marcia Woolcoat’s three pounds had been excitedly stowed away in the rainy day tin on the mantelpiece, empty and neglected in recent months, but Hettie had not yet mentioned the cheque. In the true tradition of the command performance, she was saving the best until last.

‘What do you think Marcia Woolcoat will do when
she’s read the shoebox letters?’ asked Tilly, scraping cream off the spine of her book. ‘It might send her mad. Then she might go on a killing spree, or set fire to Furcross with all the cats still in it.’

Tilly’s enthusiasm built to a crescendo, inspired by Polly Hodge to include as many classic scenarios as she could remember, and Hettie marvelled at her friend’s imagination, knowing that Marcia Woolcoat was probably capable of all of them. ‘I think Miss Woolcoat’s world is crumbling around her ears,’ she said, when Tilly had run out of dramatic endings. ‘Her problems started long before she set up Furcross, and I think her chickens are all coming home to roost at once. When I left, she seemed more dead than her sister, and she certainly wasn’t interested in taking the case any further – which is a shame, because we could have got another week’s work out of her.’ Hettie said the last few words with a twinkle in her eye, then a broad grin, and Tilly put the change of demeanour down to the catnip until Hettie sprang from her chair and snatched the folded piece of paper from the staff sideboard ‘She did give me this, though. What do you make of it?’

She allowed the cheque to float down onto Tilly’s blanket and watched as her friend unfolded the paper and read the glorious words over and over again, vocalising the sum in a mystic chant. ‘Fifty pounds. Fifty pounds. How can it be for fifty pounds? Look! It says “Pay Miss Bagshot the sum of fifty pounds”, and
she’s signed it. Look! It says Marcia Woolcoat. How can there be so much money on one piece of paper?’ Tilly stood up and danced around her blanket, grinding flaky pastry and samosa crumbs into the carpet, and for the first time Hettie felt the joy of their windfall. She joined Tilly in her dance and they spun round the room together, without a care in the world.

Exhausted but happy, they fell into their beds and Tilly entertained Hettie with the highlights of her day: first her encounter with a video cassette, and then her triumphant visit to Jessie’s shop and the three new best cardigans. Hettie was in too good a humour to calculate just how long her office cat had been missing from her post, and promised to look in at the shop the next day in case Tilly got busy and needed help. As they drifted off to sleep, they chatted about the evening at Malkin and Sprinkle, wondering who would be there and – now that Tilly had settled on her new blue cardigan – what Hettie would wear. The question remained unanswered as they fell asleep in the warm glow of the dying fire.

Several hours later, Tilly awoke with a start and shook Hettie urgently out of a dreamless sleep. ‘Wake up! Wake up! It’s no good! It’s just a piece of paper! We can’t spend it!’

Hettie opened both eyes as Tilly’s whiskers tickled her face. She sat up and blinked. ‘Whatever’s the matter? Are we on fire? Have the Butters’ ovens done for us?’ She looked at the anxious expression on her friend’s face and pulled her dressing gown around her shoulders.

‘I was having a lovely dream about TV sets. We were going to buy the biggest one in the shop and
you gave them Miss Woolcoat’s cheque, but the cat serving us just laughed and said it was only a bit of paper and we’d have to have proper money if we wanted a television.’ Hettie listened carefully and, to her horror, came to the same conclusion as the cat in Tilly’s dream: the cheque was worthless unless they could get it cashed for proper money. ‘You’ll have to open a bank account,’ Tilly continued, ‘and you’ll have to do it in the morning because it’s Saturday and they shut at twelve.’

Hettie knew there wasn’t a bank in the High Street that would allow her to open an account. During her music days, she had become rather overdrawn at several of them and had gained a reputation for being somewhat unreliable. The fact that she had eventually paid off the debts didn’t seem to matter to the fat cats who swivelled round in their chairs, puffing on their cigars and encouraging the overdrafts, then pulling up the drawbridge when they’d squeezed an extortionate amount of interest out of the financially challenged. Hettie had vowed never to enter a bank again, deciding that if fortune ever came her way she would keep it in notes under her armchair, but as usual Tilly was right: Marcia Woolcoat’s cheque meant nothing unless it could be cashed. ‘I can’t go to the bank,’ she admitted. ‘They won’t have me. The only way to sort this out is to go back to Furcross and ask Marcia Woolcoat for cash instead of a cheque, but the last time I saw her
she was positively suicidal and I’m not sure I can go through all that again.’

‘What about the post office?’ asked Tilly. ‘Have they blacklisted you as well?’  

Hettie thought for a moment. Except for the odd disapproving look from Lavender Stamp, she couldn’t recall any problems with the post office, and it would be convenient to have their money just across the road where they could keep an eye on it. She nodded in a problem solved sort of way and Tilly went back to her blanket, relieved that – should she return to the TV shop in her dreams – she would be able to complete the sale with the help of Hettie’s new post office savings book.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny, and both Hettie and Tilly awoke refreshed and ready to do battle at the post office counter. There was no real breakfast to be had as there had been no real money to purchase supplies before Marcia Woolcoat boosted their economy, but their dinner vouchers wouldn’t be needed thanks to the free meal at Malkin and Sprinkle that evening. It was decided that – if all went well at the post office – they would indulge themselves in two of the Butters’ Saturday specials, a giant bap filled with bacon and sausages and a frothy coffee in a paper cup.

Lavender Stamp had worked in the High Street Post
Office since she was tall enough to reach the counter, and before that her mother Rosemarie had allowed her to watch the transactions perched on a high stool. She had learnt to count and do the most complicated arithmetic before most kittens left nursery school, and she had always expected to become postmistress when Rosemarie Stamp retired. Rosemarie had been well loved by the High Street community and, when the time came for her to stand down and move to a cottage by the sea, there was much speculation about Lavender’s suitability for the job. The concerns had nothing to do with the intricacies of day-to-day business, but with the way that Lavender herself behaved towards her customers. To say that she had an unfortunate manner was being kind; in fact, to join one of Lavender’s long queues signalled a willingness to be subjected to a third-degree interrogation from behind the grille, even if you required nothing more than a stamp. Those who had been part of the community for some years agreed that Lavender’s sweet nature had disappeared on the day she was jilted by Laxton Sprat, a college cat who worked one summer at the sorting office and collected the mail each day. Lavender would position herself on the pavement next to the postbox, fluttering long eyelashes at Laxton as he piled the letters into his sack. Eventually he asked her out, but after some unpleasantness on the back row at the Roxy Cinema, Laxton decided to hightail it back to college a week early. To make matters worse, Lavender caught a serious infestation of fleas from the
Roxy and scratched her way through the rest of that very hot summer, broken-hearted and just plain cross. The heartbreak dwindled as the flea treatment began to work, but Lavender’s anger at being cast aside by a student remained, surfacing every day as she greeted her customers with the welcoming word ‘
NEXT
!’

Hettie usually sent Tilly to the post office, as she was much more patient and far less frightened of Lavender Stamp. Tilly liked to see the good in everyone and she enjoyed licking stamps, so the ordeal usually had a nice bit at the end of it. But today was different and the two cats joined Lavender’s queue together, expecting a rough ride. They were not disappointed. The post office contained none of the customer comforts enjoyed during Rosemarie Stamp’s time: the row of chairs for older cats had been removed to offer more space for queueing, and the rack of colourful greetings cards was reduced to a very poor selection – the sort of card you might grab for a cat you hardly knew but felt sorry for. Lavender had discovered that the mark-up on greetings cards was derisory, and had decided to run her stock down to make way for more lucrative items, all of which were safely stowed away behind her counter, safe from shoplifters. There was, however, one curious break with the mean, sparse shopkeeping philosophy: a display case full of hand-knitted cat dolls, all in sombre colours and dressed according to their professions. There was a chimney sweep, a soldier, a sailor and even an undertaker, all lined
up as if Lavender had spent her evenings knitting perfect male cats to compensate for the real one who didn’t share her fireside. Each doll boasted a luggage label price tag, and the display cabinet itself proudly informed everyone that these were ‘Hand-crafted, highly collectable knits by Miss Lavender Stamp’. As the queue shuffled slowly forward, Tilly gave the contents of the cabinet a good once-over, imagining what it would be like if they all came to life when the post office was closed and held Lavender to ransom behind the counter; no one in the town would pay up, and the thought made her giggle.

There was now only one cat ahead of them, and Marcia Woolcoat’s cheque was getting hotter and hotter in Hettie’s paw. She licked her lips nervously, wishing there was more than one post office in town and feeling sorry for the cat at the front of the queue, who was getting a dressing-down for obscuring the address on her parcel with sealing wax. After much tutting, the package was grudgingly weighed and viciously stamped, and the cat fled outside in a flood of tears, much to the distress of the rest of the queue, who knew their turn would come.

When the walls resounded to the cry of ‘
NEXT!
’, Tilly pushed Hettie forward, tucking herself behind her friend and out of the postmistress’s sightlines. ‘I’d like to open an account,’ Hettie began, hoping that a straightforward request would be the best policy. As she dared to look through the winged diamante
spectacles that adorned Lavender Stamp’s otherwise plain face, she realised that her opening gambit was not necessarily the one that would cause her least pain.

‘We would all like to open an account,’ Lavender responded in a voice that would carry to the back of any theatre. ‘To hold an account at this post office is a privilege. It is not available to just anyone who walks in off the High Street.’ Lavender reached behind her and selected a form from her vast array of official applications. ‘You will need to complete form POLS/SA/AC/7B, and I warn you now that if you are unable to answer any of the questions, or if you fill in any of the boxes incorrectly, you will have to start again.’ Hettie looked down at the form that Lavender pushed towards her, and the post office queue fell silent, waiting for her next move. Tilly held her breath and sidled closer to Hettie’s back, sheltering herself from the inevitable fall-out.

‘Do you have a pen I could borrow?’ asked Hettie brightly in her best posh accent. Seeing the sulphur rise from the top of Lavender’s head as the postmistress morphed into one of Dante’s tormented souls, she wished she had just taken form POLS/SA/AC/7B and run. The rest of the queue shrank back a little, distancing itself from the bomb that was about to go off.

Lavender had the complete attention of her audience, and she rose splendidly to the occasion. ‘May I remind you – and all who are assembled here – that this is a post
office. I sell stamps, postal orders, brown paper, string, cellotape, sealing wax and three sizes of envelope, and I offer a number of official documents, including vehicle tax road licences. but! I do not, repeat
not
, lend or sell pens. If you wish to buy a pen, I suggest that you go to a stationer’s rather than waste my time by asking for items that I have no intention of stocking.’ Lavender pulled the form back under the grille as if she had changed her mind about letting Hettie have it in the first place, and continued to offer a run-down of her regulations. ‘To open a savings account at this post office, you will need a minimum initial deposit of one pound, a permanent address, proof of identity at that address, details of your next of kin – that’s the cat you wish to leave your money to when you die – and a personal recommendation from an upright and trusted member of the community who has known you for more than three months.’ Looking Hettie in the eye, Lavender seemed satisfied that she would not be able to meet any of the criteria, and was just about to shout ‘
NEXT
!’ when Hettie pushed her crumpled cheque across the counter in a final desperate bid to secure the money. Lavender shrank back from the curry smell that permeated the paper, horrified by the visible traces of Marley Toke’s samosa, and unfolded the note as if it had once belonged to a plague victim. As she read the sum written on the cheque, it was her turn to gasp, and the queue edged forward as one, eager for news.

Lavender moved closer to her protective grille and lowered her voice so that only Hettie could hear. ‘Miss Bagshot. I assume this is your cheque?’ Hettie nodded and Lavender continued. ‘As the sum is more than ten pounds, I find myself able to offer you what I call my Premium Saver’s Account. If you are able to keep a balance of no less than twelve pounds in the account at all times, I will be able to issue you with a red saver’s book as soon as the cheque has cleared. Under those circumstances, you will only need to fill in form PS/01, which simply requires your name, address and a signature.’ Lavender reached for the form and, taking her own pen, filled in the details under Hettie’s instruction and passed the form – and pen – over to Hettie for her signature. ‘If you return on Wednesday after the cheque has cleared through Miss Woolcoat’s bank, I will be able to issue you with your passbook.’ She stapled the cheque to the completed form with a resounding crack and rammed the paperwork onto the ‘dealt with’ spike, then resumed her position of High Street tyrant. ‘
NEXT
!’

Hettie and Tilly danced triumphantly back outside, leaving Lavender Stamp and her line of victims behind. Tilly returned to their room to get ready for her stint in Jessie’s shop, and Hettie joined the Butters’ queue for their well-earned treats. The atmosphere was in stark contrast to the one she had just left: the smell of freshly baked bread, combined with the sweetness of cream
cakes and the added bonus of Betty’s breakfast griddle, gave the assembled hopefuls a joyous experience as they filed first past the savoury pie selection, then cakes and pastries, and finally a stunning array of breads and rolls, eventually reaching the counter spoilt for choice and eager to spend. A constant stream of greetings and jolly banter came from the counter end, as Betty and Beryl handled their customers’ orders efficiently, while seeming to have all the time in the world. Hettie exchanged her luncheon vouchers with Beryl, who found her a tray to put the baps and coffees on, then waved her through to the back with a wink, saving her the bother of going out into the street with her precious cargo.

Tilly could smell the breakfast approaching long before she heard Hettie’s footsteps in the back hall, and opened the door ready to receive their Saturday specials. ‘Ooooh lovely!’ she purred, fastening a tea towel round her neck to protect the best red cardigan with hood and pockets that she’d selected for her afternoon of shopkeeping. Hettie cautiously cut her lunch into four bite-sized pieces and began to chew thoughtfully, but Tilly launched herself wholeheartedly upon her own bap, holding it down with one of her large paws as she nibbled, licked and chewed until there was nothing left but a greasy memory on their gingham tablecloth. The coffee eventually left its mark, too, as she forced her face into the paper cup, determined to remove every last
drop of froth and ending up with it all over her ears and the top of her head.

Hettie glanced at the clock on the staff sideboard, then at the very silent transistor radio next to it. ‘I’ll walk down the High Street with you when you go to Jessie’s,’ she said. ‘I have to get some batteries for the radio or we’ll miss our show tomorrow.’ Tilly nodded enthusiastically, wondering if Elizabeth Traybake had ever enjoyed a sausage and bacon bap or, for that matter, liked her coffee frothy. The star with the topaz eyes had fascinated her since the day she found a biography in the old library. She had read that Miss Traybake had three passions in life: diamonds, Tom cats, and cardigans – which had instantly created a bond between her and the movie star. Her adoration was cemented forever when she went to see
Cleopatra
with Jessie, and witnessed her favourite scene of all time: Elizabeth Traybake entering Rome as the Egyptian queen, dressed in a gold lamé cardigan.

‘Come on – we’d better get going if you’re to be on time for Jessie,’ Hettie said, taking her best mac from the back of the door. ‘I think it’s going to rain later, so you’ll need an umbrella.’ Tilly grabbed the umbrella out of a pot by the door and stopped dead as Hettie struggled into her coat, only to discover that she had either put on a stone in weight or that something terrible had happened to her mac since she last wore it. ‘This is ridiculous! I can’t even do it up. And look at the sleeves! They’re too short.’

Tilly could only stare in horror. Realising what had happened, she burst into tears. ‘It was me,’ she sobbed. ‘I was only trying to help. I knew how upset you were about the mud and the piccalilli, so I washed it myself because we couldn’t afford the dry-cleaners. Then I wore it to go to Jessie’s, as it wasn’t quite dry. It was meant to be a nice surprise and now it’s ruined!’

Tilly’s sobs got louder until she noticed that her friend was laughing as she struggled out of the mac. ‘Well, there’s only one thing for it,’ said Hettie, trying to keep a straight face. ‘I’ll just have to buy a new one. And as for you!’ Tilly closed her eyes and waited to be given her marching orders. ‘If the mac fits, then you’ll have to wear it – on special missions and that sort of thing. After all, detectives need macs so they can turn their collars up and look suspicious under street lamps.’

Tilly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘If I have a mac, does that mean I can be a real detective like you?’

‘Of course you can. Now we’ve solved our first case, I think we need to look the part – and you are my official sidekick, after all. You’ll need a mac to keep your notepad and pencil in, just in case you have to jot something down when we’re out on a job.’

Tilly’s eyes grew as big as saucers at the prospect of being Hettie’s official sidekick; she had never been official in her life, and this wasn’t the moment to point out that the case hadn’t been solved, exactly. The two cats strode off down the High Street, Tilly feeling extra important in
her new detective mac and Hettie settling for an umbrella until she could access her savings account to go shopping. The rain had started by the time they parted company outside Meridian Hambone’s hardware shop, and Hettie headed inside in search of batteries.

The Hambones had kept a shop on the High Street for over a hundred years and Meridian looked as if she’d been there right from the start, although she could still climb to the top shelves when the need arose. Her shop was the cheapest in the town for just about everything, from sink plugs to tins of paint, and her toothless grin was always welcoming. Hettie loved Hambone’s because it maintained an old-world charm that was rare and inviting. The shop smelt of firelighters, wood and turpentine – and so did Meridian, perched on a high stool by the counter, chewing her way through a jar of wine gums and occasionally spitting the ones she didn’t like into a bucket by the till. She had been a raven-haired beauty in her day and a favourite with the visiting gypsy Toms who brought the fair to town; they had left her with more than candy floss when they moved on, and Meridian had lost count of how many kittens she had brought into the world, but she had loved them all. Now, in her old age, the wicked twinkle that had got her into so much trouble was still there and her saucy innuendos made even her younger, more streetwise customers blush.