go in and look round? It is most exciting!’
By now, the crowd had shifted from Mavis’s front door and was gathering round Hettie, hopeful of some lurid details to take home. Hacky Redtop barged through the crowd with his notepad and pencil poisedfor a statement, just as the local TV crew arrived and started setting up a camera tripod. Prunella Snap seemed to have got into an altercation with one of the TV reporters and had been pushed to the ground, where she became entangled in the microphone cable that was being rolled out by a regional radio engineer. Delirium Treemints had laid out a table of refreshments on the pavement opposite the house and was doing a brisk trade in tea and morning coffee, using the Dosh Stores to boil her kettle. It seemed that Lavinia Spitforce was right about one thing: everyone seemed to know that Mavis Spitforce was dead, even before Shroud and Trestle had taken her away.
Hettie raised her paw and silenced the crowd. ‘I can confirm that Miss Mavis Spitforce has died,’ she said in her best official tone. ‘I am investigating the reasons for this and have nothing further to say at this time. However, I’m sure Miss Spitforce’s niece Lavinia will be happy to talk. She is inside the house at the moment, and I suggest that one of you knock on the door and invite her out to speak to you.’
Hettie had hardly finished the sentence before the crowd shifted as one, laying siege once again to Mavis’s front door. Bruiser kicked the bike into life as Hettie – treating herself to a satisfied grin – leapt on the back, and Scarlet roared away from the community scrum, leaving an unsuspecting Lavinia Spitforce to the mercy of the hungry media.
Having met her daughter, Hettie reviewed her opinion of Mildred Spitforce and promised to keep her informed of any developments in the case when they dropped her off at her flat. But the most urgent thing on the agenda now was lunch, and Bruiser responded by getting them to the Butters’ in a matter of minutes, parking Scarlet outside the post office. Hettie had a fancy for a prawn bap – a new line that Beryl had introduced to the lunchtime specials – and chose a sardine and cream cheese roll for Tilly, while Bruiser settled for a beef pasty. The cats made their way through to the backyard, where Hettie picked the milk up from the doorstep and opened the door on a hive of activity.
The whole of the room was laid out with charts and Tilly was sitting in the middle of them, scribbling notes. She was so engrossed that she didn’t realise she had company until the smell of Bruiser’s pasty reached her nostrils.
‘Oh, lovely!’ she exclaimed as Hettie put lunch down on the only corner of the table that wasn’t covered by family histories. She rose from her labours and paddled across the sea of papers to the kettle, where she prepared three mugs with her best visitors’ tea bags, kept for what she liked to call ‘working lunches’ – although whenever food was available, work tended to grind to a halt. Hettie and Tilly both believed firmly in getting their priorities right.
‘That’s a beauty,’ said Bruiser, eyeing up the dagger that Hettie had removed so recently from Mavis Spitforce’s back. ‘Last time I saw one of these was when it whistled past me ear in Billy Smut’s circus.’
Hettie proffered the dagger to Bruiser for a closer look. ‘What sort is it?’
Bruiser took it and turned it in his paws. ‘It’s one of them ceremonial jobs, valuable I’d say – look it’s got some jewels in the hilt. Nasty curved blade, too – comes from overseas, not yer general sort of dagger. The cat I knew at the circus had a set of ’em for his act. He came from somewhere in the Himalayas. Funny sort of cat, ’e was – in a trance most of the time, and not exactly talkative.’
Bruiser returned the dagger to its tea towel, cleared himself a space at the table and noisily launched himself into his pasty. Tilly sat on her blanket by
By now, the crowd had shifted from Mavis’s front door and was gathering round Hettie, hopeful of some lurid details to take home. Hacky Redtop barged through the crowd with his notepad and pencil poisedfor a statement, just as the local TV crew arrived and started setting up a camera tripod. Prunella Snap seemed to have got into an altercation with one of the TV reporters and had been pushed to the ground, where she became entangled in the microphone cable that was being rolled out by a regional radio engineer. Delirium Treemints had laid out a table of refreshments on the pavement opposite the house and was doing a brisk trade in tea and morning coffee, using the Dosh Stores to boil her kettle. It seemed that Lavinia Spitforce was right about one thing: everyone seemed to know that Mavis Spitforce was dead, even before Shroud and Trestle had taken her away.
Hettie raised her paw and silenced the crowd. ‘I can confirm that Miss Mavis Spitforce has died,’ she said in her best official tone. ‘I am investigating the reasons for this and have nothing further to say at this time. However, I’m sure Miss Spitforce’s niece Lavinia will be happy to talk. She is inside the house at the moment, and I suggest that one of you knock on the door and invite her out to speak to you.’
Hettie had hardly finished the sentence before the crowd shifted as one, laying siege once again to Mavis’s front door. Bruiser kicked the bike into life as Hettie – treating herself to a satisfied grin – leapt on the back, and Scarlet roared away from the community scrum, leaving an unsuspecting Lavinia Spitforce to the mercy of the hungry media.
Having met her daughter, Hettie reviewed her opinion of Mildred Spitforce and promised to keep her informed of any developments in the case when they dropped her off at her flat. But the most urgent thing on the agenda now was lunch, and Bruiser responded by getting them to the Butters’ in a matter of minutes, parking Scarlet outside the post office. Hettie had a fancy for a prawn bap – a new line that Beryl had introduced to the lunchtime specials – and chose a sardine and cream cheese roll for Tilly, while Bruiser settled for a beef pasty. The cats made their way through to the backyard, where Hettie picked the milk up from the doorstep and opened the door on a hive of activity.
The whole of the room was laid out with charts and Tilly was sitting in the middle of them, scribbling notes. She was so engrossed that she didn’t realise she had company until the smell of Bruiser’s pasty reached her nostrils.
‘Oh, lovely!’ she exclaimed as Hettie put lunch down on the only corner of the table that wasn’t covered by family histories. She rose from her labours and paddled across the sea of papers to the kettle, where she prepared three mugs with her best visitors’ tea bags, kept for what she liked to call ‘working lunches’ – although whenever food was available, work tended to grind to a halt. Hettie and Tilly both believed firmly in getting their priorities right.
‘That’s a beauty,’ said Bruiser, eyeing up the dagger that Hettie had removed so recently from Mavis Spitforce’s back. ‘Last time I saw one of these was when it whistled past me ear in Billy Smut’s circus.’
Hettie proffered the dagger to Bruiser for a closer look. ‘What sort is it?’
Bruiser took it and turned it in his paws. ‘It’s one of them ceremonial jobs, valuable I’d say – look it’s got some jewels in the hilt. Nasty curved blade, too – comes from overseas, not yer general sort of dagger. The cat I knew at the circus had a set of ’em for his act. He came from somewhere in the Himalayas. Funny sort of cat, ’e was – in a trance most of the time, and not exactly talkative.’
Bruiser returned the dagger to its tea towel, cleared himself a space at the table and noisily launched himself into his pasty. Tilly sat on her blanket by
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