The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency (16 page)

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 offspring 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.

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.

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 little 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.