The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency Page 17

  Her final journey across the lawn, past the potting shed and into the burial ground, was made a little more complicated by the gale force wind that erupted from nowhere, buffeting the coffin as the bearers struggled to maintain the dignity of the occasion. The mourners followed behind, hanging on to their hats, some arm in arm against the elements, and Hettie joined Tilly, Jessie and Poppa at the back of the procession; all had decided that they would get a much better view of the event by keeping their distance. By the time they arrived in the burial ground, a carnival atmosphere was developing, encouraged by the large, open-sided, red-and-white striped gazebo that had been erected next to the freshly dug grave. Marcia’s plot had taken centre stage, and would no doubt become the focal point of the proposed memorial garden if the plan went ahead.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ asked Poppa, voicing his companions’ concern.

  ‘It looks like some sort of performance tent,’ Hettie said, as the gazebo threatened to take off in another sudden gust of wind.

  ‘The whole thing’s a bit of a bloody performance if you ask me,’ muttered Poppa, pulling his collar up against the first spots of rain.

  Tilly was trying hard to see what was happening. Not sharing the same height as her friends, she eventually borrowed an abandoned flowerpot from the vegetable plot to stand on. ‘Ah, that’s better. Oh look! There’s Alma in the tent, next to Marley. She seems to be smiling. Oh. Now she’s laughing!’

  Hettie and Jessie craned their necks as Poppa scrambled three more flowerpots from the garden, turning them upside down so that they could all get a decent view of the proceedings. In her new elevated position, Hettie had an excellent vantage point on the gazebo and was just in time to see Nola Ledge step inside to give the first reading. The wind carried her words away, but they must have been entertaining as Alma Mogadon continued to laugh; in fact, Hettie and Tilly noticed that Alma Mogadon smiled and laughed her way through the whole funeral, which was more than a little unsettling.

  Next came Captain Silas Mariner, who produced a tin whistle and offered a jolly set of hornpipes to the wind and rain. Those who were not elite enough to come under the protection of the gazebo raised their umbrellas, much to Tilly’s annoyance. ‘Oh bugger! Now I can’t see anything! Let’s shove our way to the front – we’re missing all the best bits.’

  Tilly was right: the best bit was still to come. Poppa forced a path through the mourners and established a ringside position, and Jessie pushed her large red umbrella skyward to protect them all from the strengthening rain, bringing a bit of colour to an otherwise drab gathering. Marcia Woolcoat’s coffin rested on planks across the open grave, and the rain danced and splashed off the lid as if joining in with one of Mariner’s hornpipes. The music was brought to an abrupt end as the heavens opened wider in a violent downpour, and the undertakers responded by hurriedly tying ropes to the casket. With little further ceremony, they released the planks and lowered the coffin into the grave, which was rapidly filling with rainwater. Hettie couldn’t help but remember the moment when Marcia Woolcoat had crawled out of a grave in the burial ground; now, that moment seemed like a macabre rehearsal, but she would need a good screwdriver to repeat the trick and pull off the resurrection that Hettie’s imagination had created.

  As the coffin was lowered, a number of mourners made their way back to the dining room out of the rain, ready to make inroads into the funeral tea that Marley had been up half the night preparing. But the show was by no means over: the rain eased and gave way to a sudden burst of sunshine, and the burial ground lit up and sparkled as the sun turned the raindrops into jewels of light. And out of that light came an everlasting promise of life after death.

  ‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Hettie, looking across at the gazebo. ‘It’s Marcia Woolcoat! She’s not dead! How has she done that? They’ve only just put her into her grave.’ Hettie’s outburst was heard by the remaining mourners, and all eyes turned towards the gazebo as Marcia Woolcoat stepped forward to address the crowd, bringing a smiling Alma Mogadon with her. More discreetly this time, Hettie continued her commentary as Jessie, Poppa and Tilly stared open-mouthed. ‘She’s only going to take a bloody bow! No wonder Alma’s laughing – it’s all been a sick joke. That family obviously takes pride in coming back from the dead!’

  Tilly could see that Hettie was getting angry and placed a paw on her arm, concerned that she may go too far. Marcia Woolcoat began to speak. ‘Today is a celebration of life, the life of my dear daughter, Marcia.’ Relieved, Hettie rallied. Marcia Woolcoat had been the spitting image of her mother, who now stood before them. It had never occurred to her that ‘the old mother cat’ was not quite as old as she had been painted, or that Marcia Woolcoat wasn’t quite as young as she wished people to believe. Mrs Woolcoat senior continued. ‘My beloved daughter wanted nothing more than to help those in need, and her work here at Furcross has made a real difference to so many lives. She cared for those who wanted dignity during their final days, and used her vast resources to that end. When my daughter Alma joined her here at Furcross, they made a wonderful team and I am so proud of them both. And Marcia’s work will continue: this place will be a shrine to her achievements thanks to a handsome offer from Mr Turner Page, who intends to bring community activities and a library service to the town. It is his wish that Furcross should be known from this day forward as the Marcia Woolcoat Community Centre and Memorial Garden.’ The crowd cheered as Marcia Woolcoat’s mother bathed herself in her daughter’s legacy. When the appreciation had died down, she clapped her paws together in a triumphant gesture. ‘And now let us all go back inside for a jolly good tea!’

  The mood in the dining room was indeed a celebratory one. Marilyn Repel once again – and for the last time – offered her cabaret as the guests mingled, devouring vast quantities of food and drink. Hettie was still disturbed by the uncanny likeness of Marcia Woolcoat’s mother, and was more than a little bewildered by her graveside speech; from what she had come to believe about the mother and daughter relationship, Marcia would be spinning in her grave and was likely to put in an appearance before her wake was over. The last few weeks had shown that stranger things really did happen.

  Marley Toke had finally collapsed in a corner, exhausted but satisfied that the matron of Furcross had been given a send-off fit for royalty. Hettie joined her as many of the mourners began to say goodbye and head for their cars. ‘What will you do now that Furcross is being taken over? Will you go ahead with the cafe?’

  Marley looked thoughtful as she stared across the room at Alma Mogadon and her mother. ‘De ting is Miss Hettie – Moggy, she needs me. Just look at ’er – she bin grinnin’ like dat since Miss Marcie’s “accident”, and de old mother cat, she want me to house keep for dem. Dey goin’ to get a big house by de sea and dat would suit me very well. Me’s not as young as me used to be, and startin’ a cafe is a lot o’ work.’ Hettie nodded in agreement as Tilly joined them, carrying three large pieces of chocolate cake. ‘You takes dat home, Miss Tilly. Me’s gone off de chocolate cake just now.’ Tilly realised her mistake and pushed the food to one side. Marley rose from her seat. ‘I’ll come and say me goodbyes in a day or two. Just now me has to ’arvest me plants from de yard before de Turner Page cat tinks they fixtures and fittings. I’ll bring you some to dry for de winter. Dere’s good pipe-smokin’ catnip in dem plants.’

  As Marley walked away across the dining room, Hettie noticed that Alma and her mother had stepped outside and were in conversation by the French windows. Curious and still a little confused by the day’s events, she signalled to Tilly and they made their way towards the doors, positioning themselves within earshot of Marcia Woolcoat’s mother as she shared a few thoughts with her only surviving daughter. ‘You’ll have to snap out of this, Alma! Take that stupid grin off your face or mummy is going to get very cross with you and have you locked away for good. Now we have her money, we can do anything we like. I told you that if we bided our time we’d get her in the end, and your nice li
ttle touch with the cake slice was brilliant. Now she’s dead and we’re rich, so pull yourself together! No more Marcia, no more Furcross. Just you and me and all that money.’

  Alma remained silent throughout the one-sided conversation, but Hettie and Tilly moved forward as one when they heard her burst into a bout of convulsive laughter. The scissors appeared from nowhere and it was Tilly’s swift action that saved the day: as Alma Mogadon raised her paw to strike, Tilly sprang through the French windows and pushed Mrs Woolcoat to the ground. The scissors missed their target and became firmly lodged in the nearest window box. Hettie grabbed Alma, restraining her as she hissed and spat at her mother. She tried to lead her back into the dining room, out of harm’s way, but Alma resisted. ‘How dare you threaten to have me locked up after everything you’ve put me through?’ she shouted, glaring at the older cat who was struggling to regain her composure. ‘I nearly died for you. I’ve cried myself to sleep at night worrying about you. I put up with Marcia’s rules and regulations for you. I even killed her for you, and now you want to take her money and run my life with it? No, mother – your game is over. Marcia left all her money to me, and I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted me to share any of it with you, so unless you want me to finish what I started here, you will leave Furcross now and never try to contact me again.’ Alma Mogadon turned away from her mother and headed across the lawn towards the burial ground. Shocked and defeated, Mrs Woolcoat walked slowly through the dining room and out into a world of loneliness, poverty and regret.

  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.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  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

  CAT AMONG THE PUMPKINS

  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.’