The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency Read online

  Marcia seemed to have lost the thread of what she was about to say, much to the relief of Alma, Hettie and Tilly, who now gathered round Marley’s trolley as she poured tea from the samovar and handed it out. The plates were distributed and piled high with sandwiches and, for the next ten minutes, the only sound in Marcia Woolcoat’s parlour was a contented, rhythmic chewing and the smacking of lips. When the sandwiches had been disposed of, Marcia led the way with the cheese straws and pork pies, and Marley – having joined in with the savouries – prepared to cut the chocolate cake, which no doubt had Jamaican origins.

  The cake was a huge success and a party atmosphere took over the small parlour. Tilly had made a firm friend of Alma, who seemed to like all the books and films that numbered among Tilly’s favourites, and who – most importantly – was the proud owner of Elizabeth Traybake’s autograph, which she had got on a train before the actress moved to Hollywood. Hettie helped Marley to load the empty cups and plates back onto the trolley, and Marcia Woolcoat – having eaten and drunk everything within reach – resumed her presentation. The gathered few settled themselves back on the sofa with the exception of Marley, who – without invitation – flopped down on the rug by the fire.

  Seeing that she once again commanded their attention, Marcia continued. ‘I have come to a number of decisions regarding the future of Furcross, and my sister and I have decided to embark on a fresh enterprise in pastures new.’

  ‘Oh Miss Marcie, what will I do?!’ wailed Marley, covering her face with her apron as her substantial body rose and fell in giant sobs.

  Marcia Woolcoat was horrified at her reaction, and quickly addressed the situation. ‘Marley – please let me finish. I am very aware of your loyalty both to me and to Alma during your time here, and for that reason I have decided to take on the lease of Oralia Claw’s premises in the hope that you will consider running a cafe of your own in the High Street.’ Marley allowed the apron to drop from her eyes and sat open-mouthed. ‘My sister and I are happy to invest in your skills and, in exchange for your managing the day-to-day running of the venture, we would be happy to offer you a partnership and a good share of the profits. There is, I believe, living accommodation above the shop which should, in time, make a comfortable home for you. How does that sound?’

  It was some time before Marley could find any words and all eyes turned in her direction, anticipating her response; when it came, it was worth waiting for. ‘Is you sayin’ dat you givin’ me a cookin’ shop? And dat you puttin’ me in charge? And dat I’ll have me own place, a proper home where day can say – Marley Toke, she live ’ere? Oh Miss Marcie! Dat sound de best ting dat ever happened to me in all me days.’

  ‘Yes Marley, that’s exactly what I am saying. You will obviously have to work hard to make it a success, but Alma and I think you can do it and we are both happy to help in any way we can. I have arranged with the agents to collect the keys on Monday, after they have cleared the place of Oralia Claw’s things. I suggest you go and have a look at the property and start making plans as soon as you can.’

  Marley pulled herself up with the aid of the mantelpiece and threw herself into her benefactor’s arms as the sobs returned, this time of sheer joy. Bouncing off a startled Marcia, who had never learnt to hug anyone in her life, she repeated her show of gratitude on Alma, flattening her slight form against the arm of the sofa. Hettie and Tilly looked on with satisfaction, but both were curious as to what would happen to Furcross. It hadn’t occurred to Marley to ask, and so Hettie did the job for her. ‘Where will you and Alma go? And what will happen to your guests here at Furcross?’

  Marcia Woolcoat paused before answering Hettie’s question, as if waiting for Alma to speak, but her sister just smiled and nodded, encouraging Marcia to outline their plans. ‘Due to the recent problems here, most of our guests have left and those who remain are happy to make alternative plans. Miss Ledge has accepted a proposal from Mr Slack and it is their intention to purchase a cottage in the country. Miss Marilyn Repel has received some very exciting news from a film company in Hollywood. I understand that she is being offered a contract to become the senior lead in a high-profile TV series entitled Desperate Housecats. She has managed to procure a wardrobe contract for her daughter Cocoa, who under the … er … circumstances is happy to leave these shores for a new life in Hollywood. As for Furcross, I had a most satisfactory meeting with Mr Turner Page earlier today. He is keen to reinstate the town’s library and feels that Furcross would be an ideal building. The new venture would also include a day centre for elderly cats and a nursery for young kittens. As a condition of purchase, he has agreed to turn the burial ground into a memorial garden where cats can buy their own plots.’ Realising that she was headed for murky waters, Marcia shot a look at Alma and moved on. ‘There will of course be no facilities for our Dignicat programme, but it’s good to know that the residents who already have their resting places in the burial ground will lie undisturbed.’

  Hettie suddenly recalled with great clarity her zombie dream and wondered whether it was Turner Page who would be disturbed by the burial ground’s permanent residents rather than the other way round. Choosing to keep her macabre thoughts to herself, she pressed Marcia into revealing hers and Alma’s future plans. This time, Alma readily took up the baton.

  ‘Marcia has spoken of her guilt and of how she wishes to make reparation, but it is my confession that you must hear. The fault lies with me. As you are all aware, my mother has expressed a wish to spend her final years by the sea, and it was my efforts to make this happen without Marcia’s knowledge that led to the terrible mess I found myself in and the awful things I allowed to happen to Pansy, Vita and Virginia. I involved my best friend Marley in my secrets, and worst of all I put my sister through the most painful of situations, first by attempting to take my own life and then by allowing her to discover my deceit regarding our mother. The best thing to come out of this mess is that there are now no secrets, and I have you all to thank for that. The days I spent in my room, hovering between life and death, believing that I had died and was spending my afterlife imprisoned in a tomb of my own making, have taught me that nothing is so bad that it can’t be talked about. That’s what Marcia and I have been doing all this week.’ Marcia reached out and took her sister’s paw, and Alma continued. ‘My mother is a difficult cat and can be very cruel and spiteful, but she is my mother and I couldn’t just walk away from my responsibilities when she has always loved me. I didn’t want to choose between her and my sister. I know that Marcia has every good reason not to see my mother again, but she is old and needs looking after.’

  Hettie was beginning to tire of the Marcia and Alma confessional; in fact, they were both getting on her nerves. Tilly obviously felt the same way, because she was fidgeting and picking threads out of Marcia Woolcoat’s sofa. The idea of a fire in their own grate and a choice of Saturday night viewing on their TV had far greater appeal than the humble pie which was being consumed in front of them, but the problem was how to extricate themselves from the situation without causing offence.

  It was Marley who came to the rescue. ‘Lord love us, Moggy girl! Don’t put yourself through all dat trouble again. Just tell us what you and Miss Marcie doin’ next.’

  Alma brightened at the prospect of talking about the future but the opportunity was snatched from her by Marcia Woolcoat. ‘We have decided to buy a big house by the sea – in Southwool if we can find one – and when we are settled our mother will come to live with us on the understanding that she has separate accommodation and that Alma takes complete control of her.’

  Hettie noticed the word ‘control’ as opposed to ‘care’ and wondered how their mother would take to living under a regime designed by Marcia Woolcoat; maybe it was payback time for all of them. Tilly was trying to imagine what Marcia’s and Alma’s mother looked like; the colour combination of ginger, pink and grey with a mix of short and long hair and an aptitude for drama which she had clearly passed to her offspr
ing gave a rather unpleasant picture. Hopefully she would never have to find out.

  Marcia and Alma seemed to have run out of steam, and Hettie chose exactly the right moment to stand up. Tilly followed her example, brushing chocolate cake crumbs from the front of her cardigan, and Hettie gave their thanks for tea and what had turned out to be two hours of enlightenment. They moved towards the door, politely waiting for someone to see them out.

  Alma stood as if to follow them but made for the tea trolley instead. Taking the cake slice, she cut another large piece of chocolate cake and took it to Marcia, who waved it away. ‘Oh come on, Marcia,’ she said. ‘You always were a greedy girl, and judging by the size of you nothing has changed. Surely you can manage another slice while I tell our guests what you’re really like?’ Everyone in the room froze except Alma, who placed the unwanted cake in Marcia’s lap and moved to the fireplace, resting the cake slice carefully on the mantelpiece. ‘As my sister has chosen to make our private family business so public, I think it only fair to come clean on her behalf – she seems unable to cope with the truth of any sort, especially concerning herself. You have heard a credible, heartwarming confession of her guilt which was worthy of an amateur stage production, and I have also played my part as any devoted sister should. But now we turn to the real Marcia Woolcoat.’

  Marcia pushed herself out of her chair, letting the cake fall to the floor, but Alma was too quick for her and forced her back. ‘Oh no you don’t! This time you will let me speak, without interruption. It would be quite wrong to let our friends leave with a false impression, wouldn’t it, sister dear?’ Alma spat the last words out and Hettie and Marley exchanged worried looks. Tilly shrank behind Hettie, still listening but not wanting to see what happened next. Marcia Woolcoat sat deflated and frightened as Alma continued. ‘Last week, thinking I was dead, my sister carried me to my room and sat at my bedside for the first night – not out of remorse or grief, you understand, but out of her own selfish need to confess a crime she had committed many years ago. I was aware of her and could hear what she was saying, but the paralysis caused by the drug I had taken gave no indication of this and Marcia believed she was talking to a corpse. She spoke of her hatred for my mother and how she had been beaten, locked up and starved by her when I was a small kitten. But then the real truth came out.’ Marcia gave a sob and started to shake, but Alma ignored her and carried on with her story. ‘She said she had despised my mother for wanting more kittens, and that when I was born there was also another kitten – my twin sister, whom my mother had named Buffy. Marcia said that after our birth my mother was unwell and relied on her to take care of us. I have no memory of this time but, as I lay in a coma, my sister confessed that she had tried several times to kill me and Buffy, and eventually got half lucky. She told me that she had taken us down to the river, tied us up in a sack and thrown us both into the water. A neighbour watched her do it and pulled the sack out, but it was too late for Buffy. She died on the riverbank. Marcia ran away but my mother found her and brought her home, where she was locked up as a punishment and kept away from me in case she tried to finish the job. My mother never told me why she had taken against Marcia, but I can easily understand now her reasons for keeping me so close and for shutting Marcia out of her life as soon as she was old enough to make her own way in the world. In short, my sister destroyed my mother’s life and nearly succeeded in doing the same to me. As for Buffy, she was given no life at all.’

  Marcia Woolcoat forced herself out of her chair and this time turned on Alma. ‘I have spent this week trying to make up for all that! I have even put Furcross in both our names so that we’re equal, and I am willing to allow that cat you call a mother to shelter under my roof. I was very young and very jealous when I did what I did, and I suffered for it. When I thought you had killed yourself because of me, I had to confess. What more do you want from me?’

  Alma smiled at Marcia as she took the cake slice from the mantelpiece and thrust it into her sister’s stomach. ‘Justice for Buffy and my mother, that’s what I want.’

  Marcia Woolcoat fell forward as a fountain of blood sprayed the room. No one could quite remember what happened next, but Marcia was clearly beyond help and it was some time before anyone moved. Still smiling, Alma Mogadon rescued the chocolate cake from the floor and began to eat it. It was Marley Toke who eventually took control of the situation, throwing a rug over the body that lay in a pool of blood by the fire. She reached out to Alma, who seemed oblivious to anything but the cake, and said: ‘Come on now, Moggy – time for a lie-down. Me take you to yer room, then Marley she clean up and make Miss Marcie comfortable.’ She steered Alma to the door and Hettie opened it for them, watching as Marley led Alma Mogadon down the corridor towards the hospital block. Shocked and silent, Hettie and Tilly made their way to the front door where Hettie collected her mac, and emerged into fresh air, glad to leave the Furcross bloodbath behind.

  Neither of them spoke until they reached the bus stop in Sheba Gardens. ‘It’s just like that film,’ Tilly said. ‘You know the one – Whatever Happened to Kitty Jane. That was about two sisters – one was spiteful and the other was nasty. It starred … now let me think … er … was it Joan Clawfoot and Butty Daydream?’

  Hettie thought for a moment as the bus loomed into view. ‘Yes, I think you’re right, but being stabbed by your own cake slice takes some beating, even in Hollywood. I think Psycho would be nearer the mark. I wonder if the old mother cat has a rocking chair and wears a wig?’ Tilly wanted to giggle, but for some reason found that she couldn’t.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Marcia Woolcoat’s funeral was set for the following Friday. The townsfolk had been saddened by her untimely and unfortunate death, and Hacky Redtop had written a very nice piece in the paper about her valued place in the community and her determination to offer a decent life to elderly cats at Furcross. Her death had been reported as a terrible accident: she had, according to the newspaper, slipped on a piece of chocolate cake and fallen on the point of her cake slice during a tea party attended by her now grieving sister and other unnamed friends. The funeral service and burial were to be held at Furcross, and the Thursday edition of the evening paper carried an open invitation from the family of the deceased, stating that all would be welcome to the interment and the wake that followed.

  Hettie, Tilly and Poppa arrived in plenty of time, which was just as well; judging by the cars that were double-parked the length of Sheba Gardens, the whole of the town had turned out to pay its respects. Hettie and Tilly were suitably attired in their best macs with collars turned up against the October winds, and Poppa had exchanged his work overalls for a smart double-breasted seaman’s jacket with shiny silver buttons. Marley, wearing some sort of tribal sarong, stood at the front door and greeted the mourners as they arrived, directing them through to the dining room where Marcia Woolcoat’s open casket stood on trestles for final farewells.

  Hettie and Tilly had pondered the passing of Marcia Woolcoat for most of that week and had eventually come to the conclusion that it was one of those messes that families got themselves into. There was no right or wrong involved, and it certainly wasn’t their business to contradict the accepted version of Marcia Woolcoat’s ‘fatal accident’. Anyway, as Hettie had pointed out that morning: ‘If we’re going to be proper detectives, we can’t afford to become emotionally involved with the personal lives of our clients.’

  Tilly spotted Jessie in the crush of cats filling the dining room and made her way across to her. ‘I was hoping I’d see you here, but I wasn’t sure if you’d come.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ said Jessie, adjusting the red hat that had been knocked sideways by a tall cat’s elbow. ‘Marley called me in to dress her,’ she added, nodding towards the casket. ‘And it was no mean feat. I’d say that if the cake slice hadn’t finished her, the cake would have done it. I managed to squeeze her into one of Cocoa’s latest creations, but it’s not done up at the back.
Unless she surprises us by sitting up in her coffin, all should be well. Come and see what you think.’

  Jessie and Tilly joined Poppa and Hettie by the casket, and all four cats looked for the last time on the face of Marcia Woolcoat. In death, as in life, she was a commanding figure, but no longer a threat. Hettie looked at her lifeless features and realised what a leveller death really was. She had become almost fond of Miss Woolcoat in a strange sort of way, but she could be fearsome and patronising and that part of her character had been her undoing. She had used her sister to hit back at her mother and manipulated the residents of Furcross into thinking her a saint, and now the whole town was buying into her benevolence by needing to be seen at her funeral. But Marcia must have waited in fear all her life for the justice that had finally come to her. Now, lying in her coffin like all the cats that had gone before, she would be nothing more than a few words on a headstone. Saddened, Hettie moved away from the main attraction as more cats jostled to see the corpse. She scanned the room for Alma Mogadon, but there was no sign of her.

  The spectacle of Marcia Woolcoat’s body was eventually eclipsed by the arrival of Marilyn Repel and her daughter Cocoa, who entered the dining room together wearing stunning full-length black dresses, finished off with shawls and studded with shiny black sequins and bugle beads; both wore small skullcaps and delicate nets, pulled down low over their faces. Marley Toke left her post and, with the help of Turner Page, handed out small glasses of sherry to those seeking refreshment. Lavender Stamp, who had arrived earlier with the Butters, made a beeline for the tray of drinks and Hettie watched as she downed two glasses and took a third, which she carried across to Marcia’s casket and sipped with appreciation as she looked the corpse up and down. There was still no sign of Alma Mogadon and Hettie was about to ask Marley where she was, when the French windows to the garden were flung open and four suited and booted cats moved swiftly through the crowd towards Marcia’s coffin. One of them wielded a screwdriver, and the room fell silent as the lid to Miss Woolcoat’s eternal overcoat was fixed in place and screwed down. The cats then positioned themselves, two either side of the coffin, and – with an act of herculean strength – hoisted the casket onto their shoulders on the count of three. The crowd held its breath as the undertakers reversed and turned the coffin; then, marching as one towards the French windows, they bore Marcia Woolcoat paws-first out of Furcross for the last time.