Murder and the Moggies of Magpie Row

by Kate High

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

'Animal lovers will delight' Ann Granger

'A real treat . . . I loved it. Cats, dogs, murder and a credible and relatable heroine' Barbara Nadel

When Clarice Beech finds her friend Peter Ramsey dead in his kitchen, she believes he's succumbed to a fatal heart attack.

Peter, who lived in one of the five cottages on Magpie Row in the Lincolnshire Wolds, was a keen supporter of stray cats - which made him very unpopular with the neighbours. And after Chris Morris, an alcoholic neighbour, disrupts Peter's funeral, insisting Peter was murdered - and he knows who the murderer is - Clarice discovers there's no shortage of possible suspects among the Magpie Row inhabitants.

Who, behind Magpie Row's idyllic façade, might have had murder in mind? And, after his outburst at Peter's funeral, where is Chris? And is Clarice, with her mission to tend to Peter's strays, as well as uncover the truth about her friend's death, putting herself in danger's way?

Release date: June 29, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

A wide mud track separated the grass bank that edged the River Bain from the back gardens of the five cottages collectively known as Magpie Row. Amidst the dead patches of weeds along the track, the overnight rain gathered in puddles, and early on a still spring Monday morning, the tranquillity was broken only by the repetitive cooing of the collared doves nesting in the trees close to the river edge.

Shattering the peace, a child with curly brown hair, wearing a shiny red mac and pink wellies, threw open the gate to dart out of the garden of the end property, number 5. As she jumped into the centre of the nearest puddle, muddy water splashing up over her boots and running down her short, stocky legs, she threw her head back, screeching with glee.

Sitting in her car watching, Clarice Beech recognised five-year-old Rosie Cutter, the middle child of three. Her father, Terry, and his partner, Meera Gupta, having lost their home due to financial difficulties, had recently moved to live with Terry’s retired parents, Jim and Lynda Cutter. Cars parked on the track, next to the back gate, indicated that Rosie’s parents had not yet left for work.

Magpie Row, surrounded by the lush green countryside of the undulating Lincolnshire Wolds, nestled on the top of a rise. Behind each cottage stretched a long garden, and to the front, at the bottom of the incline, ran the road, a signpost indicating that if you turned left it would lead you to Skegness, while to the right was Castlewick. The lane across the road, directly opposite Magpie Row, went to the village of Bainby.

Having driven up the incline to the side of the row of cottages and made her way along the mud track, Clarice was parked behind number 2. She was visiting seventy-three-year-old Peter Ramsey, who had been born, and lived all his life, in the house. His mother, who had survived his father by five years, had died more than thirty years earlier. Since then, Peter had lived alone, working until retirement as a civil servant for the Lincoln office of the Inland Revenue.

Clarice was a ceramicist by profession. She was also a passionate animal lover and had come to know Peter through his link with the charity she’d founded many years earlier. Castlewick Animal Welfare, known locally as CAW, took in stray or unwanted dogs and cats and cared for them until they were found new homes.

Peter was known in the town both for his love of cats and also as a poet. He could expound on the lions of the Serengeti, leopards in Masai Mara or the cheetahs of Namibia, their behaviour, the hierarchy within the pride and their feeding habits. His demeanour changed when he moved on to the decline of species through human activity, habitat loss and disease. His voice would falter and quiver and soon tears overflowed from the short-sighted pale blue eyes behind the dark spectacle frames. He’d never visited any of the countries he spoke about, nor seen the live creatures. He also disapproved of the ethos of zoos, with animals living in an enforced unnatural habitat. All his knowledge had come from books, TV and film.

Peter’s passion for the plight of animals was genuine, but his daily life centred around not the majestic lion or lithe leopards, but the common moggy. Having taken in strays for over thirty years, after his retirement the numbers had increased. The kitchen window of 2 Magpie Row was half open day and night, whatever the season. It allowed his numerous house cats unhindered access, and he left food out daily in the garden and on the riverbank.

Working with her friend Jonathan Royal, Castlewick’s vet, Clarice had, over the years, encouraged Peter to have all the cats neutered and offered to organise and pay for the service through her charity. But Peter was adamant that he was against neutering. When Clarice raised the subject, he would always say the same few words.

‘They’re born to be free.’

It was his opinion that cats should be allowed to live freely and procreate unhindered, and that spaying or castration modified their aggression as hunters, rendering them vulnerable.

Clarice considered her relationship with Peter to be complicated. A stranger might see them as like-minded people, but she had become competent in presenting a calm surface that masked her internal frustration. She liked Peter, thought of him as a friend and cared about his well-being. Their opposing views on the management of feral cats was the reason for her exasperation. It was only within the last year that he’d reluctantly allowed her to start taking those he thought she might be able to rehome. And with an increase in the number of cats being abandoned in his garden, he’d also finally agreed to her taking the kittens and all the pregnant females.

Lately, Clarice had grown increasingly concerned about Peter’s health; he appeared to have become accident-prone, acquiring bruises and sporting a black eye after a fall. Most recently, he had been in hospital for heart surgery.

‘Get in here, now!’

Clarice looked beyond Rosie to see Meera Gupta bounding from the back garden of number 5, her waist-length dark hair flying like a cape behind her as she ran, shouting at her daughter. Meera, who usually sported her hair in a plait, wore a loose-fitting, brightly coloured top, a combination of orange and lemon circles, that fell to mid-thigh over black leggings.

‘Rosie, Rosie.’ The sing-song voice of Ethan, Rosie’s younger brother, filled the air. The boy, barefoot and wearing just a nappy with a blue T-shirt above it, was under two years of age. He pushed past his mother to run forward, his legs forced wide by the encumbrance of the nappy. His older sister ran on to stamp in another puddle, then stopped completely still, her sudden complete immobility like a car making an emergency stop as her eyes locked with those of her angry mother.

‘Bad girl, you’re going to be late for school.’ Meera scolded one child, scooping the other under her arm. Grabbing Rosie with her free hand, she turned back towards the gate of number 5.

Watching her disappear into the back garden, Clarice noticed the swift, sneaky movement of Champagne Princess, more commonly known as Sherbet, Jim Cutter’s much-adored fifteen-year-old Persian Blue. The long-haired cat ducked under the hedge, her head moving left to right like a prisoner checking their route of escape. Meera had presumably left the back door open, allowing her to get out.

Clarice smiled, watching Sherbet make a rapid beeline for number 2. No matter how vigilant Jim might be, since the arrival of his three young, noisy grandchildren, he could not prevent the animal, when given the opportunity, making her getaway to Peter’s peaceful sanctuary.

‘Clarice.’

She turned to find Peter, slim and gaunt, with a scattering of wispy grey hair, stooping down to the open car window. He peered at her with his soft, spaniel-like eyes. As always, he wore baggy old jeans and a faded grey sweater, and was carrying a black metal cat trap.

‘No luck catching the tabby boy, King?’ she asked as she got out to stand next to him.

‘No, the food’s untouched – it was still in there, he’s too canny.’ He put the trap down, peering at her as he adjusted his spectacles. ‘I saw him twice yesterday, still limping, and one eye looks bloody and half closed.’

‘I thought we had a deal.’ Clarice tipped her head towards the trap, her voice chiding. ‘It’s only two weeks since your heart surgery. We agreed when you came home that you’d leave the trap where it is by the riverbank and I’ll carry it back to the house.’

‘It’s kind of you, Clarice, but I still have to take it there in the evening.’ Peter smiled.

‘I said I’d call over later to put it back out.’ Her voice became gentle.

‘You have enough on with all the charity animals, but thank you.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I will leave it out in the morning for you to bring in. It means I’ll only do the evening set-up.’

‘OK, that sounds like the best deal I’m going to get,’ Clarice said with a mock sigh. ‘We need to get King to the vet; he’s obviously been fighting again. Let’s hope he’s hungry enough to go into the trap tonight. I’ll come back again early tomorrow morning.’

‘He’s been the top cat, king of the riverbank, for a lot of years.’ Peter sounded gloomy. ‘He must be nine … maybe ten.’

‘That’s old for a feral. One of the younger ones must be pushing him from the top spot.’

‘It was an inevitability.’ His voice was resigned. ‘Always sad when it happens.’ He turned towards the gate. ‘Come in for a cuppa.’

She picked up the cage and followed him through the back gate.

‘And there’s no need to worry about me, I’m as right as rain.’ He led the way through the garden. ‘I can’t be wrapped in cotton wool.’

A paving-stone path divided the garden into two. A wooden shed near the gate, for storage of garden tools, had its door half open. On both sides ran newly planted crops, the soil impressively weed-free. The garden was neat, although due to the earliness of the season, the vegetable garden looked bare.

‘What have you put in, Peter?’ Clarice spoke to his back, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Broccoli, leeks, chard, spring cabbage and lettuce.’ He pointed from side to side as he moved on.

‘Are you doing broad beans this year?’

‘Yes, but it’s too early to plant – I love broad beans, one of my favourites.’

‘Me too,’ she agreed. ‘Great that Chris next door is helping you keep on top of things – the weeds can take over so quickly.’

‘It works for both of us,’ Peter said. ‘Chris gets a few quid in his back pocket and I get a neat garden.’

‘Spoken like a true inspector of taxes!’

‘Hush!’ He smiled. ‘I’m a long-retired inspector of taxes, and anyway, the amount he gets from me would be under the taxable limit.’

‘If Chris were ever to fill in a tax return.’

‘He wouldn’t need to. He only receives a small amount in benefits, which he hands over to his mum, Joyce, to pay for food and board. Apart from what I give him, he doesn’t have any earned income.’ Peter stopped to look at Clarice with a hangdog expression. ‘I’m not in Joyce’s good books.’

‘Joyce, why?’ Clarice asked, surprised.

‘Because of the drink.’ He held up his hand, shaping it as if holding a glass. ‘She says I’m encouraging Chris’s alcoholism by giving him money.’

‘Mm,’ Clarice said. ‘Difficult!’

Leaving the cat trap to the side of the door, she followed Peter into the kitchen. In the centre was an oblong pine table and around it four upright chairs. In the centre of the table was a stack of small stainless-steel dishes. As they entered, three almost identical black-and-white cats rushed past to go outside.

The kitchen was as neat and well organised as the garden. A cream-coloured electric oven was slotted between cupboards with yellow doors; on the opposite side of the room stood a white butler sink in front of a half-open window, rows of muddy pawprints testifying to the comings and goings of the household cats.

‘Did you see Sherbet?’ Clarice asked.

‘I did. It’s OK, Jim was here last night.’

‘The truce is holding up?’

‘He’s finally accepted that I’m not enticing his cat away. She just hates the noise and activity of three under-sevens. Sherbet’s an old lady who had a quiet life until they turned up.’ Peter smiled. ‘She spent the evening stretched out on Jim’s lap, purring, while we played chess.’

‘He took her home with him?’

‘Yes, he does try to keep her at his place, but as soon as anyone opens the door, she heads back here.’

After switching on the kettle, Peter wiped the muddy prints away with an old cloth. When he’d finished, he went to the cupboard to bring out a mop and bucket to clean the floor. As he did so, Clarice spotted his elegant spidery writing on a single piece of paper on the table.

‘Am I allowed to read the poem?’ she asked. It was a regular event on her visits to be shown Peter’s latest poetic offering.

‘Please do,’ he said. ‘It’s a work in progress. I left it there for you to look at.’

The favourite cat does not mourn your passing.

Death and loss hold no meaning – love is the next dish of prawns.

The familiarity of your fingers and past affection counts as nothing as he cleaves now to another.

His body so often splayed against yours, in imitation of affection, revealed the mimicry of the survivor

Draped now against a new frame – one with warmth, vigour and a beating heart.

The lift of the tail is unreadable –

No backward glance,

No feigned regret.

His eyes in a straight unbroken line fix on the distant skyline.

‘It’s about death?’ Clarice placed the sheet back on the table. ‘It’s strong – I like it.’

‘Thank you.’ Peter pushed his glasses further up his nose as he poured hot water into the teapot. ‘It started out being about Sherbet, the unsentimental way she’s abandoned Jim. She’s been with him from a kitten – fifteen years. That’s just the way cats are. I don’t know how it meandered into being about death. I’m in training, gearing up for the Castlewick summer festival – the poetry competition.’

‘You’ve won every year since it started. Although you have stiff competition from your next-door neighbour at number three. The formidable Miss Baker.’ She whispered the words playfully.

‘Yes, Cathleen.’ Peter raised his head from making the tea to stare at her. ‘You were at Castlewick senior school when she taught there, weren’t you? I’ve heard the children found her a bit scary.’

‘A bit!’ Clarice laughed. ‘She terrified me. It was like she had a super power; she could see inside your head, what you were thinking.’

‘Well, she’s not changed much. She scares the hell out of me.’ He brought the mugs to the table. ‘And I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who hates cats as much as she does.’

‘No more threats?’ Clarice asked, remembering a recent hostile encounter with Cathleen Baker.

‘It’s same old, same old.’ Peter picked up his mug, sipping his tea thoughtfully. ‘Yesterday she said that if any cats go into her garden for a poo, she’ll let me know so I can go and clear it up. I do my best to avoid her.’

‘Your having won the poetry prize for the last five years doesn’t help, I suspect. She always comes in second. You’ll never be in Miss Cathleen Baker’s group of most popular people – she is, as she reminds everyone, a retired teacher of English. She expects to come first, not second!’

‘Thirty-eight years.’ Peter’s voice assumed an artificial pomposity.

‘Never took a day off sick.’ Clarice’s voice mimicked his.

As they laughed, a man Clarice judged to be in his mid to late fifties, wearing a white collar to signify his profession, appeared by the half-open back door.

‘Knock-knock,’ he called with a friendly smile. ‘I tried your front door but couldn’t get an answer.’

‘We’ve been out at the back, collecting a cat trap.’ Peter stood, advancing to take the man’s outstretched hand.

‘I’m Gordon Wilton, the new vicar,’ the stranger introduced himself.

‘Peter Ramsey, and this is Clarice Beech.’ Peter indicated Clarice as she went to shake the vicar’s hand.

‘We’re just having a cup of tea. Would you like to join us?’

‘As long as I’m not intruding.’ Gordon stepped forward eagerly.

‘Are you the new arrival at Bainby?’ Clarice asked as he pulled a chair out and sat down.

‘I am, though I’ll be conducting services at other churches in the area as well, ones that don’t have a vicar.’ He turned to Peter. ‘I know you won’t recognise me after all these years. I only met you once or twice.’

He seemed to be assessing Peter, Clarice thought, as his gaze swept over him. Peter had after all changed significantly over the years. Clarice remembered when, still in employment, he’d looked dapper and handsome in his smart charcoal-coloured suit. In the years following his retirement, his clothing had become more casual. He’d grown more dishevelled, scruffy even, with each passing year. She assumed he spent most of his income on the cats.

A mental picture of Elsa Cotton came into her mind. She had been the only girl who had ever mattered to Peter; he’d once confided that the young Elsa had been the image of Rossetti’s Lady Lilith, a pre-Raphaelite beauty. Pale and slim, with flowing auburn hair. His one true love. He never discussed the ending of the relationship, but rumour had it that Elsa had dropped Peter to marry the town’s butcher. Clarice had never known Elsa as a young woman. Still living in Castlewick, she was now a stout, white-haired matriarch with an abundance of children and grandchildren.

‘My wife was Dorothy Wilton,’ Gordon said. ‘She was cat mad, collected tins of food for your many waifs and strays.’

‘Dorothy.’ Peter stroked his chin. ‘That was – what – twenty years ago. She moved down south.’ His eyes brightened. ‘Yes, I do remember her, a really lovely lady.’

‘Twenty-two years ago, to be precise. We were young then, both twenty-eight. I’m fifty now,’ Gordon said. ‘We moved to Camden, in London. I used to be an accountant until I got the call.’ He touched his dog collar. ‘I’ve just moved back.’

‘I know the name,’ Clarice interjected. ‘Dorothy Wilton – I might have met her.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Did she go to ceramic classes?’

‘No, I don’t think so …’

‘How is Dorothy?’ Peter placed a mug of tea in front of Gordon.

Gordon’s face clouded, the smile vanishing. ‘Sadly, she passed away. It was a long while ago – nearly eighteen years.’

‘I am sorry.’ Peter’s voice wobbled. ‘Such a sweet lady.’

‘God moves in mysterious ways.’ Gordon looked down at the mug. ‘She was knocked over in the street, an accident. A car mounted the pavement, the driver had dementia – he shouldn’t have been driving.’

‘Awful,’ Clarice said. ‘That’s so sad.’

‘She was with our son, Archie,’ Gordon said. ‘He was nearly four – the happiest time of my life. They both died.’

Gordon had, Clarice realised, an old face. On first sight, she’d thought him older than fifty. Even as a child, she imagined, he might have looked much older than his years. It could have been his chiselled features and prominent nose. He wore dark wire-rimmed spectacles over his friendly brown eyes, topped by a furrowed forehead and a thick brown thatch of hair threaded with grey.

‘You’ll find it’s changed a lot around here.’ She spoke to break the silence that followed his words. ‘After twenty-two years.’

‘Yes, I’m sure I will.’ Having regained his composure, Gordon smiled again. ‘I’ve come to Magpie Row to visit Miss Baker. She lives at number three.’ He looked at them enquiringly.

Peter gave Clarice a sly look. If Gordon had overheard their conversation earlier, he wasn’t letting on. ‘Yes, I know Cathleen Baker.’

‘She organises the flower arrangements at Bainby church. I was calling to introduce myself. When I stopped outside your cottage, I remembered dropping Dorothy here all those years ago, with the tins of cat food.’ Gordon’s eyes held a faraway look. ‘Thought I’d see if you were still here – say hello.’

Peter nodded.

‘What lovely handwriting.’ The vicar took in the sheet of paper on the table. He touched the edge with his fingertips.

‘Thank you,’ Peter said. ‘I write poetry.’

‘Beautifully,’ Clarice added. ‘Peter has won first prize with his poems at the Castlewick Festival for the last five years – since the competition started.’

‘Quite an achievement.’ Gordon spoke warmly. ‘I hope I might help in some way with the cats. Take up Dorothy’s mantle and contribute tins of cat food?’

‘Thank you,’ Peter said with a smile. ‘That would be most welcome.’

The conversation flowed easily as they chatted at the kitchen table. Gordon talked about his gout and Peter about his recent stay in hospital after his minor heart attack. Clarice told their visitor about changes in the town over the last two decades.

After Gordon left, Clarice stayed on for a while before driving home. The two men seemed to have hit it off, and she wondered whether Gordon might become a new friend for Peter. She puzzled about having met Dorothy Wilton. The name was familiar. If she wasn’t an ex-student, perhaps it was through something animal-related. Her mind moved on to King, the damaged cat. She had promised Peter she would be back the following day at around 8 a.m. to check on the trap. She hoped that finally the tabby could be brought in from his roaming.

Later that evening, Clarice told Rick about the new vicar and his visit to Peter.

‘You won’t be seeing much of him,’ Rick muttered.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘But our paths might cross in Castlewick, even if we don’t go to church.’

Rick nodded distractedly. Distraction had, Clarice thought, been something she’d observed in him over recent days. While the body was here, the thoughts were increasingly elsewhere. She imagined that as a police detective inspector, it might be something work-related. But he generally shared any concerns with her.

‘Are you worried about something – the case you’re working on?’

‘No.’ He looked at her carefully. ‘Do I sound a bit vacant?’ He gave a weak smile. ‘Sorry – I was listening, I’m just tired.’

She studied her husband, his elbows propped on the table, nursing his glass of wine. At six feet four inches tall, he had a three-inch advantage on her. He was a large man, with short stubbly hair merging into a permanent five o’clock facial shadow. She was aware that his bulk and height and his rugby-damaged nose might make him appear intimidating to those who did not know him.

‘So, tell me more about Peter,’ he said. ‘He fell out with his mate Jim at number five because Sherbet the cat didn’t like the arrival of the three young sprogs. Number three, your old English teacher, Miss Baker, hates Peter’s cats. And number one is Chris and his mother, Joyce Morris. Peter gets on with Chris, an alcoholic, but not the mother, because he’s giving him money and Chris spends it on booze.’

‘You were listening!’ Clarice felt guilty for doubting him.

They were sitting at the circular kitchen table, having just finished their evening meal. On the floor nearby lay the family dogs, Blue, a black Labrador cross with a splash of white fur on her chest, and Jazz, a smaller brown bitch with a rough coat, short legs and a long tail. Against one wall, next to a red spiral staircase, was an old pine dresser displaying ceramics produced by Clarice and a row of family photographs. From the top of the dresser, the black-and-white face of Howlin’, one of their cats, peered down at them. On a chair below, Ella, a dainty tabby, sat washing her paws. Apart from Ena, who had come from Jonathan, all seven of the household cats were named after blues or jazz artists.

‘Peter lives at number two. What about the neighbours you haven’t mentioned … number four?’

‘That’s the Benson sisters, Brenda and Heather. Brenda, the elder, was married for a while. After her divorce, she returned to the family home. They lived from then on with their widowed mother, who died a couple of years ago. Heather, the younger one, a trained herbalist, never married. They have plastic tunnels in the garden to grow herbs, which they use in teas, biscuits and the herbal remedies they produce to sell. Only on a small scale.’

‘Please tell me Peter gets on with at least with one lot of neighbours?’

‘Ah …’

‘That’s a no, then?’ Rick said.

‘A few months ago, he thought someone had left poisoned cat food on the riverbank, intended for his cats – one of them ate it. He blamed the Bensons. They’d complained several times that the cats were getting into their plastic tunnels and damaging the herbs. Heather said that if Peter couldn’t sort it out, they would.’

‘What happened to the cat?’

‘Fortunately, it survived. Jonathan said it might have not been deliberately poisoned – for instance, a rat might have eaten poisoned bait and then the feral ate the rat.’ Clarice lifted her hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘But since then Peter and the Bensons, who denied leaving any poison, haven’t spoken to one another.’

‘Poor sod,’ Rick said. ‘He seems such a quiet, inoffensive sort.’

‘He is. He’s thoroughly decent and kind – but I have to admit he’s not the easiest person to work with when it comes to cats.’

‘I can see he must drive you and Jonathan bonkers, although at least he’s finally let you take enough cats to keep the numbers down. He must know that if they increase any more, the animal inspectors will be on to him.’

‘Yes, he’s aware that if he allows the numbers to expand to create a colony, they’ll take an interest. Miss Baker has contacted them several times.’

‘Which is why she had a crack at you a few weeks ago!’

‘She’s a nasty piece of work.’ Clarice shook her head, remembering. ‘She told me to back off. She said that while I was taking cats and kittens to keep the numbers down and the animals were all healthy a. . .