Death by Soup Page 8

  “They do not like the look of me, I tell you. They don’t like tourists.”

  He waved them down with his hands. “Look, I am from Scotland too! I like a good curry, but I also put salt on my porridge. Well, I did when I could still eat.”

  He blinked again, and they were gone. I sniggered and plonked myself down next to Mum.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  Despite my hastily eaten bag of crisps, I was so hungry that I practically burst into tears. “NO!”

  Humming, she delved into her handbag and brought out something wrapped inside a napkin. What was it? Ooh, a roll and sausage from the hotel? Some bacon? I licked my lips as she unwrapped it.

  Grandad burst out laughing. It was falafel. A tiny mound of chickpeas wrapped up in a slightly less tiny parcel of pitta bread. “I picked it up at the wee deli in the village, but you can have it.” She smiled at me. “Don’t say I’m not good to you.”

  Yet again, I almost burst into tears. That it had come to this: being forced to sit in a graveyard and eat something that would barely satisfy a rabbit. But I demolished the thing within about ten seconds anyway. At that point I would have eaten raw seagull if someone had offered it to me.

  Mum drew in a deep breath and grinned. “Hmm, I think I’ll meditate.”

  “Can I have some pocket money first?” I was thinking about how much it would cost to buy the pork pie I’d spotted in the SPAR earlier. But it was too late, she’d adopted that faraway look that said she’d already vacated the planet and was on her way to a distant galaxy.

  Grandad, meanwhile, hunched up his shoulders, as if fearing an attack at any time. “Seriously, I am being threatened by these punters. There is a guy here pointing a giant spear at me. Do you want to see?”

  “No!” I wasn’t feeling all that comfortable myself. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. But it was nothing to do with ghosts – I was too used to Grandad to be scared of the dead. I felt like I was being watched.

  Casting my eye around, I could see one or two tourists wandering the grounds, and a few more descending the metal stairs inside the wall of the nave, which led to a high-level walkway and a viewpoint. But there was no one else in sight.

  I got up and wiped my hands on my jeans. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  “Anywhere would be better than this.” Grandad’s voice quivered.

  We skirted the side of the abbey, the stone wall stretching up to my right. “Do you think that receptionist is mixed up in the goings-on at the hotel?” he asked.

  “It’s possible,” I said. “But I’m still not sure how. Nothing gels.” In my mind’s eye the jigsaw pieces were shifting around in the mist, trying to slot together but never finding the right fit:

  * The Yummy Cola letter

  * Sharkey’s death by soup

  * The stolen bell

  * The ghostly Grey Lady, Lady Brightburgh, and her death by gargoyle

  * Chase Whitton’s death by giant cheese wheel

  “It’s almost as if…” I stopped.

  “What?”

  But the thought got away from me, as from right above my head came an ominous crack. I looked up at the wall to glimpse a black-gloved hand, then watched, frozen, as a large section of stone wall hurtled down in my direction.

  Chapter 16

  The Spooky Applause

  The pile of rocks plummeted towards me. In fact, they were about to go through me. I genuinely thought my number was up, until I felt a body blow against my shoulders, sweeping me sideways.

  I tumbled over a stone wall and collapsed, spread-eagled on the grass. The rubble landed with a sickening crunch on the exact spot where I’d been standing.

  Grandad was even greener than usual, staring down at his own hands in wide-eyed astonishment. “I… I…”

  “You pushed me!” I croaked.

  “But… you know… I cannot really move stuff.”

  I struggled to my feet nursing an aching shoulder, a scuffed hand and a throbbing bump on my forehead. But it could have been a whole lot worse. “You can do it when you want to, and that proves it. You saved my life!”

  We were interrupted by the clunking sound of footsteps running down the metal staircase above. “Quick! Whoever pushed that wall over is getting away!”

  I ran round the other side of the nave, with Grandad floating beside me, but by the time we got to the entrance it was too late. All I caught was a flash of black as a figure disappeared through the main gate and into the trees.

  The fall, the shock and the running left me panting for breath, and I bent double. “OK, so… on top of various guests and aristocrats being murdered, and the theft of a priceless antique, now someone is also trying to kill me. Well, that’s just great!”

  “On the plus side…” Grandad looked around, smiling, and pushed up the sleeves of his Mac. “Thanks to my lifesaving push there, I have now got some serious respect from these other ghosts.”

  He blinked again. The ghosts that only five minutes ago had been threatening his very afterlife, were all now standing around Grandad in a respectful circle, their eyes wide with awe. Their weapons – scythes, swords, pitchforks – were cradled in their arms as they nodded and applauded a beaming Grandad.

  Chapter 17

  The Lord’s Alibi

  I didn’t tell Mum about my near-death experience. I probably should have, as I think the bump affected my brain. It must have, because after we left the abbey I quite happily got on the back of Mum’s tandem and rode back with her. I’d never have done that in a million years if I’d been in my right mind.

  I can’t say it was an enjoyable experience. Grandad floated beside us the whole way, pointing at me and laughing. “Oh, if only I had a camera!”

  When we arrived back at the hotel I marched straight up to reception. Shand was there, glaring at me like I was something he’d just expelled from his nose.

  “When is Lucy on duty again?” I asked.

  “Er, she’s on split shifts. She’ll be back later this afternoon,” he replied.

  “Hmm.” I tentatively felt the bump that was expanding on my forehead.

  Grandad, meanwhile, was still staring down at his hands, muttering, “I still do not believe it!”

  Having very nearly just joined Grandad in the afterlife, it was time to get serious about finding out why I was here. Did somebody really want me dead, or had I just got in the way? “Mr Shand, I don’t suppose you could tell me who at Yummy Cola you’ve been dealing with?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Everything was arranged in writing. We got a letter, like you did.”

  “Do you mind me asking how they paid?”

  “They paid by bank transfer. That’s all I can tell you.” He turned away.

  “Fine,” I said. “In that case, any chance lunch is being served? I kind of missed breakfast… Oh, and dinner last night.”

  He shook his head. “We’ve suspended our lunch service for today. Sorry.” I could almost hear my stomach crying out in despair. A miniscule falafel wouldn’t tide me over for long. “However,” he added, “the chef is preparing a special surprise to cheer everyone up. I hope you will enjoy it.”

  “Any chance that surprise might involve a chicken burger or two?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He walked into the office, shutting the door behind him.

  “A special surprise?” repeated Grandad. “Huh! I bet he is. There is something suspicious about that chef. It is his food being poisoned after all. I bet you he is the one doing it. I am going to check him out.” Grandad turned towards the kitchen.

  “In that case, I might as well do some checking out myself.” I ignored my still-rumbling stomach and turned in the opposite direction.

  *

  First, I asked Mum for a loan of her phone.

  “What for?” she asked, “and what have you done to your head?”

  “Er, nothing, I just bumped it, it’s fine. And I want to have a go at Sweet Rush,” I
said. Sweet Rush was this awful game she was always playing. It seemed to involve barrelling round a massive sweet shop in a trolley, collecting as many sweets as possible, while fairies and goblins attack you from all sides. I wasn’t remotely interested in it, but it was a good excuse to get hold of the phone. Hers was a proper phone, unlike mine, with internet and everything, and most importantly I could dial out on it.

  I ducked outside to the front steps, looking out over the fields towards the ruins haunted by the Grey Lady. The reception was awful, even out here, but I eventually managed to get through to Directory Enquiries.

  “Yummy Cola’s marketing department, please.” I cursed myself, wondering why I hadn’t made this call the moment the letter had arrived.

  After a short pause, I found myself connected through to Yummy Cola. It was one of those annoying automated response systems, and there were so many options, and options upon options, that I was starting to get confused. I got so bored that I held my nose at one point and put on a funny voice: “If you’re eating a cheese sandwich but your uncle isn’t Bulgarian, please press 3 now…”

  At last, I found myself talking to a human being, but I would have been as well talking to a machine. I explained that I was one of the Yummy Cola winners, and I wanted to speak to whoever was in charge of organising the competition, but the woman on the other end of the phone didn’t seem to understand. Eventually, after a lot of persuading, she agreed to look into it, then said she’d take my number and call me back.

  DI Fallon emerged from the front door, accompanied by a uniformed police officer. He was talking on a mobile, but when he clocked me, he cut short his conversation and put the phone away.

  “What are you doing, laddie?” he barked.

  Well, excuse me for living! “I’m just standing here getting some fresh air.”

  “Don’t try and fool me, laddie,” he said, and leaned closer. “Oh, by the way, you should know that we found some of the stuff that was stolen from reception. It was hidden behind a bus shelter in the village. That’s where the hoodies hang out.” He snapped his chubby fingers, then flipped them against my elbow. “See, I told you.”

  “Oh, right, that’s good news.” I nodded.

  “So, in future butt out and let the police do their work.”

  He stepped towards his car, a blue Jaguar.

  “Did you find the bell, too?” I asked after him.

  “No, not yet, but it’ll be found nearby, I’m sure.”

  He opened his car door, but I wasn’t finished. “So you’ve arrested them then, the hoodies?”

  “What? Oh no, not yet.” There was a touch of annoyance in his voice.

  I pushed him further. “So did they poison the man who died last night?”

  “We’re checking that out. The post-mortem is due back tonight.”

  “And did they push a wheel of cheese on top of Chase Whitton in the cellar in the wee small hours?”

  Fallon’s face flushed and he stomped back over from his car. His bulky frame loomed over me. “Remember, laddie.” He jabbed two of his fingers at his own eyes, then jabbed the same fingers at me. “I’m watching you!”

  He opened his car door and smiled – a grey, dour smile lacking in any warmth. “We’ve got everything under control, so like I said, butt out.”

  Sure you do, I thought. If hoodies were responsible I’d eat Grandad’s ectoplasmic hat. I bet he hadn’t even talked to Lord Brightburgh yet, who, despite what Grandad thought, had to be the number one suspect in all this. Fallon zoomed off, leaving me standing on the steps in a cloud of gravel dust.

  Lord Brightburgh.

  The more I thought about him the more it struck me that he had the one thing I was looking for, the one thing that explained everything: motive. Motive was the thing that drove people to commit crimes. A motive to steal back the silver bell his family had owned for generations? Definitely. A motive to murder the guests? Perhaps. He clearly despised the hotel and hated what Shand had transformed his old family home into. He would love to see it closed down. He had an alibi for the theft of the bell, it seemed, having gone to Edinburgh for the night, but the fact that he’d declared his whereabouts so loudly the previous evening so that everybody in the lobby could hear, made it just a wee bit suspicious.

  Evening was drawing in, and distant cattle mooed in the gloaming. My footsteps crunched on gravel as I marched around the side of the manor house.

  Five years, I thought to myself, eyeing the ruins – that was how long it had been since Lady Brightburgh’s death. I thought about her wandering those ruins, alone and lost. I thought about my dad, too. Grandad said he knew Dad was still alive, that he wasn’t ‘upstairs’, as he put it, nodding towards the heavens. If that was true, then where was he right now? And if that was true, then why hadn’t he contacted me? Dead men don’t talk, but live ones do.

  I paid no attention to the sign marked ‘STRICTLY PRIVATE’ on the gate. No detective worth their salt pays the slightest bit of attention to warning signs. I walked straight past the line of sunflowers, right up to the yellow wooden door and rang the bell.

  The door opened and Lord Brightburgh appeared, surprised and suspicious. “Yes, can I help you?” he asked, in his clear, cut-glass accent.

  Now was the time for a convincing ruse. A good detective always thinks ahead, but with all the wondering about Dad I’d been distracted. I could have kicked myself.

  In the gloom behind him I noticed a stag’s head hanging on the wall. In my view, only a certain kind of person sees fit to shoot animals and then mount them as a trophy, so I decided to play to it.

  “I hear you’re an expert in hunting, sir,” I said. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  He looked taken aback for a second. “Hunting?”

  His beagles padded out from behind him and sniffed round my feet.

  “Um, yes. It’s for a school project. We’re all really interested.”

  Ah yes, the old school project excuse. It works time and time again. They always indulge you, at least for a bit, especially people who are a bit self-important and like the sound of their own voice.

  The confounded look hadn’t left his face yet, so I acted impressed on seeing the stag’s head behind him. “Oh, that’s a beauty, sir. Where did you shoot that one?”

  Suddenly his face changed. I’d stirred up his ego. “It is a beauty, isn’t it?” He turned towards it, moving away from the door, and I took the opportunity to step inside.

  “Now, let’s see, it was one day at my friend’s estate in Glen Urquhart…” he droned.

  I wasn’t actually listening, I was just pretending to. A few nods and smiles in the right places let me snatch some glances at the surroundings while he continued to blather away.

  It wasn’t a large place, just a few bedrooms, a lounge and a kitchen. Tiny compared to the manor house he’d had to give up. It must’ve been torture for someone like him, I thought, watching the Shands take over the family pile while he was shunted into the old servant’s accommodation at the back. That much was clear from the row of ancient bells hanging from a panel in the higher reaches of the wall, complete with signs reading: ‘DINING ROOM’, ‘LOUNGE’, ‘NURSERY’. That was how they used to summon the servants. I wondered if they still worked. What if signals could be passed back from the main house to the servant’s quarters by an accomplice on the inside? The place was musty, infused with the smell of old varnish, wet dog and cigar smoke. And untidy too. Every surface seemed to be piled with stuff: ornaments, books, bills, plastic bags.

  Meanwhile, Lord Brightburgh had just asked me a question, and I had no idea what it was. He was staring at me, expecting an answer.

  “Sorry, what’s that?” I asked.

  “What are you interested in hunting?”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m from Glasgow; there’s not much to hunt there – just seagulls.”

  He laughed. “Ha! Too right, pesky blighters. Come along.”

  He led me down the hall, w
hich was wood-panelled like the main house, and hung with lots of paintings and photographs. Some black and white, others coloured but faded. Old, sombre-looking photos of family going back to Victorian times, and more recent snaps of holidays and weddings. Lots of photos of women: either sisters, mothers, nieces or past wives. I tried to focus on the features, some vaguely familiar, sparking a kind of nagging recognition, but there were too many. There were also a lot of close-ups of flowers, especially sunflowers, and photos of the dogs.

  “These are nice photos, sir. And these too.” I pointed.

  “That was taken by my late wife.” He picked up one of the dog photos. “She loved photography. And she loved her dogs.”

  “And which one is your wife, sir?” I asked, looking round the hall.

  He stopped next to the largest of the pictures, a portrait of a beautiful woman with her hair in a neat bob. He gazed at her lovingly. “That’s her.”

  “She’s very beautiful, sir.” I knew straight away that she was definitely the ghost from up at the ruins. She looked a lot younger in the painting, but it was the same woman alright. The Grey Lady really was Lady Brightburgh.

  He led me further up the hall, threading his way through doggie toys and stacks of papers. A room on the right was painted bright yellow, like the front door. A child’s drawings, old colouring books, all curly cornered and crusty, poked out of an open chest of drawers. Some of the drawings were arranged across the top, as if they’d only recently been pulled out.

  In the dark and cluttered living room, he sat me down on the only mess-free square of his leather sofa and asked me what I wanted to know about hunting. I thought up a few questions off the top of my head, which weren’t very good. He then launched into long rambling answers, which seemed to lead onto long, boring anecdotes. At least it gave me time to think up my next question.

  I was hoping to steer him onto the subject of the silver bell being stolen, and his alibi, but I could hardly get a word in. After a while the clock chimed, and he patted his hands down firmly on his knees. “Oh, blast, is that the time? I must get on.” He stood up. “I hope I’ve given you enough for your project.”