A MESSAGE FROM CHICKEN HOUSE
Nicki Thornton won our Times/Chicken House Children’s Fiction Competition with this lovely fantasy whodunnit. It has all the ingredients for a classic read: a mysterious old hotel in a wood, a lost and vital magical item hidden inside, strange magicians, an intriguing locked-room murder – oh, and a talking cat. Can you figure it out before our plucky hero?
BARRY CUNNINGHAM
Publisher
Chicken House
CONTENTS
Register of Guests
Part One
1. The Last Chance Hotel
2. Fish Head Soup
3. It Might be a Pudding
4. Dr Thallomius Himself
5. The Final Plump Raspberry
6. Herb Tea and Shortbread
7. Grinning Woman in the Mad Hat
8. The Strange Black Book
9. An Accusing Finger
10. It Was All Seth
11. Something He Ate
Part Two
12. A Search for Deadly Poison
13. Entrance of Film-Star Hair
14. A Connection
15. Two Problems
16. He Wasn’t Ready
17. We Make Criminals Disappear
18. Up to His Elbows in Trouble
19. A Genius Inventor
20. A Search by Torchlight
21. The Smell of Almonds
22. Hunting for Birdsong
23. A Glorious Shade of Forget-me-nots
24. A Towering Skyscraper of Books
25. One of Those Magical Inventions
26. More Important Than Being Popular
27. Some News on Our Candidates
28. Another Way?
29. The Eighth Seat
30. A Grudge Against Wintergreen
31. An Explosive Combination
32. The Spectre in the Bedroom
33. A Secret
34. We All Know What He Stood For
35. Watching the Tragedy Unfold
36. Gilbert’s Extra-Strong Pickles
37. Someone with Serious Magic
Part Three
38. A Lesson in Slicing
39. Lying from the Start
40. What is Wich Wracht?
41. The Picture Becomes Clearer
42. In the Land of the Living
43. Lock Me up Again
44. The Truth, Pure and Simple
45. We Should Hurry
46. Who
47. An Unexpected Army
48. And I’m Going to Get Away with It
49. The Last Hope
50. The Prospect of Magic
Copyright
For my family,
Mark, Alex and Tim
REGISTER OF GUESTS AT THE LAST CHANCE HOTEL
Room 1 DR TORPOR THALLOMIUS –
VIP guest, allergy to raspberries
Room 2 PROFESSOR PENELOPE PAPPERSPOOK –
likes to be woken by the sound of birdsong
Room 3 GLORIA TROUTBEAN –
a small desk for doing homework, room adjoining Professor Papperspook
Room 4 DARINDER DUNSTER-DUNSTABLE –
3 extra-soft pillows
Room 5 ANGELIQUE SQUERR –
full-length mirror
Room 6 GREGORIAN KINGFISHER –
a room with a picture of people playing sport
Room 7 COUNT BOLDO MARRED –
no special requests at all
1. The Last Chance Hotel
In the kitchen of the Last Chance Hotel the loudest sound you were usually likely to hear was the gentle bubble of a lone egg coming to the boil.
But today, the air was alive with yells from Henri Mould, the balding head chef, bent double with old age, barking out orders as he hobbled around the kitchen.
‘Seth – those tarts! Out of the oven. Now!’ yelled Henri, causing kitchen boy Seth to twist around on his spindly legs and hurtle to the other side of the kitchen. All around him, the air was filled with the smell of garlic butter and roasting meat, and cloudy with a dust of flour, herbs and spices. Steam ballooned, jellies set and saucepans bubbled.
If ever Seth Seppi wished he could be even the tiniest bit magic it was now. Because a spell to split himself into three was surely the only way he was going to get through all the tasks he’d been set by his three nasty bosses – crotchety Henri and the two owners of the Last Chance Hotel, snappy and spiteful Norrie Bunn and her oily, penny-pinching husband, Horatio. It felt like the hotel had been preparing forever for these special guests that Mr Bunn had been bouncing on his toes about, and today was the day they were due to arrive.
‘I need more pepper. Quickly boy!’ screeched Norrie Bunn from the stove, sending a long dribble of peppercorn sauce flying across the kitchen as she launched a dripping spoon in Seth’s direction. Her long, brittle grey hair was tied back from her pointy face as she sweated over the sauce, trying not to sneeze.
At least the Bunns’ monstrously unpleasant daughter, Tiffany, was at her posh chefs’ school, far away from her favourite entertainment – tormenting Seth.
Mr Bunn burst into the kitchen flapping his hands and squealing, ‘They’re here! they’re here!’ like a small kid announcing Christmas, before rushing back out into the lobby.
Even more startling, Mr Bunn was wearing a cherry-red waistcoat and stripy trousers, rather than the familiar drab grey suit he had worn every day for years.
Norrie Bunn tugged off her apron and, smoothing down her long grey hair, rushed to attend to her guests in the lobby.
Seth managed to be the first to reach the crack in the kitchen wall where it was possible to see through to the lobby and sneak a glimpse of the arriving guests. As he put his eye to the hole, he could hear the sound of keys being jangled and Mr and Mrs Bunn, on their best behaviour, greeting the new arrivals.
Henri moved across the kitchen with unusual sprightliness, poked Seth out of the way with a very sharp elbow and peered through the crack. ‘Is that our VIP guest, Dr Thallomius? The one we’ve put in all this hard work for? Not very impressive. All this work,’ Henri groaned as he pressed his paunch tenderly, ‘gives me gas.’
Seth had not expected their VIP guest to look like a miniature Father Christmas. Dr Thallomius had white hair, a round tummy and eyes that twinkled, but he must have only come up to Seth’s shoulder.
‘And the chap with him – what a peacock.’ Henri continued his spying. ‘Guess that’s his security he’s insisted on bringing with him. Security! Looks about as good at security as a chicken. What a ridiculous moustache.’
‘That’ll be Mr Gregorian Kingfisher.’ Seth had glimpsed a young man in a bright green, tight-fitting suit, with well-combed dark brown hair, a very large and luxuriant brown moustache and a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. ‘He’s the one who asked for a room with a picture of people playing sport.’
Guests often made special requests, but it was the first time anyone had been fussy about the artwork in their room. These guests were so fascinating. Seth had never known this many people staying. Probably because outside the hotel the whole world was nothing but never-ending trees. Seth could just about remember the days when the Last Chance Hotel had always been full. That had been when his father had been chef here. In those days, people had relished the challenge of travelling to so remote a place just for the reward of trying his famous cooking.
Seth longed for a summons from Mr Bunn that someone needed help with their bags, so he could get a closer look.
‘Can see why Thallomius wanted Miss Squerr along as his assistant,’ growled Henri, turning his head and giving Seth a momentary chance to take another peek.
Angelique Squerr’s head was held as high as if she was making an
entrance to a grand audience of thousands. Her hair was long, straight and dark, except for one long section of red down the right-hand side. It looked as if it had been polished. A film star? Under the twinkling chandelier she made the clutter of well-polished wooden furniture and pictures in old frames seem faded and worn.
‘Back to work, Seth,’ snapped Henri, picking up a knife and heading to chop some vegetables. ‘Or that washing up will reach the ceiling.’
But before Seth could make a start, Henri let out a cry and the knife in his hand fell with a clatter to the cool flagstones of the kitchen floor.
An insect flew past Seth’s nose to batter against the window. Henri cowered.
‘It’s just a bug, Henri,’ soothed Seth, gently teasing the little creature towards the open window. It looked like it was on fire, with a glowing phosphorescent tail.
‘That’s not just any bug.’ Henri’s eyes grew wide. ‘That’s a luciole. Do you know what that means?’
‘You mean it’s a firefly. Must have got lost from the glow-worm glade. It’s beautiful, come and take a look. They look like magic, don’t you think?’
‘But it’s inside!’ Henri hissed, dabbing his sweating upper lip. ‘In my country if a lightning bug flies in the window, it means – it means a death.’ Henri gripped Seth’s arm hard. ‘Seth, someone is going to die.’
2. Fish Head Soup
Seth worked his arm out from Henri’s frightened grip. ‘That’s just an old legend, Henri, don’t worry. No one is going to die.’
He released the firefly to freedom, but Henri picked up his whittling knife and scuttled off in a panic. It was left to Seth to take over preparing the vegetables for tonight’s feast.
Whittling was what Henri did whenever he was stressed and Seth was used to coming across a parsnip that had been turned into a striding giraffe or a piece of wood fashioned into a cute fox cub. But why did it always happen just when he really needed Henri to be making a roast chicken or a steak and kidney pudding that was needed for dinner?
Seth scurried past the huge saucepan where broth was bubbling, ready for the fish heads to be added to the hotel’s signature Fish Head Soup. The pile of fleshy fish heads Seth had prepared earlier were waiting, their eyes staring at him as though they were saying, You think you’ve got it bad.
He skidded to a halt.
His nose, taking in the aroma of stock and spices, was telling him something important. The broth wasn’t quite right. And his nose was never wrong.
Seth carefully lifted one of the fish heads for Nightshade, the hotel cat. He slipped it into one of the many pockets of the bright blue tunic he wore under his apron. It might be rather gaudy, but the tunic was almost the only thing left to him by his father. That, and a mirror that was so useless sometimes it looked as if it was reflecting what happened in an entirely different room.
He took a tiny spoon, dipped it into the pan and brought the liquid to his lips. It was wonderful and warming and reminded him so much of his father, who was in danger of becoming little more than a distant memory.
Seth could recall him by a smell of cinnamon and spices and all those lessons, side by side, as they’d baked bread and made soup. He was left with his father being like a small glow of love inside of him, which was more memory than he had of his mother. Any thought of her made Seth’s insides tighten from a sadness that she had died when he was just a baby, and he struggled to remember her at all.
Seth reached up to the shelf overcrowded with a mad jumble of bottles and jars of every imaginable shape, size and colour, took a pinch of some fine strands of dried yarrow and sprinkled them in, thinking that although Mr Bunn never tired of telling him how his father had been disgraced, he was never specific about exactly what he was supposed to be have done.
But Seth’s father had come up with the recipe for the soup and with such important guests, Seth was going to make sure it would be served up perfectly. Chef Henri Mould always skimped on ingredients and never got the hotel’s famous dish quite right. So, with a stealthy glance over his shoulder, Seth reached for the saffron in its long clear glass jar. His head swarmed with the repeated warnings from mean Mr Bunn. ‘Use it very sparingly. Gram for gram saffron costs more than gold.’
Seth took four tiny delicate strands of saffron between his fingers, shot another fearful glance over his shoulder and sprinkled them into the broth. He smiled as the soup turned a satisfying rich golden colour.
‘Well, well, well, Seppi, you’re so going to pay for that.’
Seth jumped, almost dropping the jar. There was no mistaking that hated voice. The last voice he had expected to hear today.
Tiffany Bunn, the hotel owners’ odious daughter, was leaning smugly against the kitchen door frame.
3. It Might be a Pudding
‘Seth Seppi the saucepan scrubber. The worst kitchen boy in the world. Still here I see?’ Tiffany’s voice oozed with contempt.
‘Tiffany!’ Seth stammered, doing his best to sound casual as he tried to hide the jar of saffron behind his back. ‘You’re back early. School OK?’
Tiffany Bunn slouched against one of the kitchen cupboards and tipped her head to one side. ‘Aw, you missed me. Dad summoned me back to this miserable place at the end of the earth. He’s a total pain when he’s stressing. He thinks I’m going to help. But, aw, sweet. I didn’t realize you counted the days just like I do.’ She gave a flick of her gloriously long blonde hair, the hair of an angel.
‘I’ve really got to—’
‘Aw, too busy to chat? And there’s me just longing to see you after spending my days all whisk this and fry that.’ She leant into him so close her high forehead almost touched Seth’s shoulder. ‘Chef school has taught me one really important thing. There is nothing more tediously boring than cooking.’
Seth’s dearest wish was that one day his talent for cooking was going to be his way out of here. He longed to cook the sort of dishes that people would travel miles for. Just like his father. When Henri was occupied whittling, Seth grabbed every chance he could to experiment. Although sometimes, even in his dreams, he couldn’t picture himself ever being anywhere else.
‘Don’t you want to know why coming back to this dump is bearable? Why I look forward to coming back?’ Tiffany whispered.
Seth clutched the jar of saffron even tighter as she moved in so close he could feel her breath on the side of his neck, smell her long journey on her skin in a cocktail of train dirt mixed with the sweet whiff of hot chocolate and a bacon sandwich.
‘It’s seeing you, my little saucepan scrubber. Still up to your elbows in potato peelings and dirty pots? Some things will never change.’ Her blue eyes opened hypnotically wide. Her skin was so pearly white, her smile so dazzling, it was easy to miss Tiffany’s real danger – that she concealed just the right amount of brains to make her absolutely lethal. ‘I long to come back because it is such fun to see exactly what sort of trouble I can get you into.’
She darted to grab Seth’s arm from behind his back. She snatched the jar of saffron, twisting his arm painfully.
‘But you do make it so very easy for me,’ she purred. ‘Stealing from the kitchens?’ She laid a finger on the smooth skin on her cheek and her lovely face curled into a malicious smile. ‘Now what are we going to do about that?’
‘Tiffany – I can—’
‘Shame I can’t take that out of your salary, Seppi. Because you don’t earn one, do you. We have to pay for all your food because your miserable good-for-nothing father disappeared and took some of my dad’s most valuable possessions.’
Seth hated the way he let her words claw at his insides. But he was stuck here. He had nowhere to go – no friends, no relations. Sometimes he thought he’d be here for ever.
‘Dad is still sadly deluded into believing I have an interest in sweaty ovens and cookery books at that lame school. Do my parents even care that they are totally ruining my life?’ Tiffany took out a piece of folded paper and shoved it into Seth’s hand, flicki
ng his forehead with her middle finger. ‘Still, I know you don’t want to disappoint my dad.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Seth.
‘Something called a raspberry pavlova,’ said Tiffany, checking her elaborately painted nails.
Mr Bunn delighted in challenging his daughter to come up with the most complicated dishes and boasted about how well she made them and how much she was learning at her posh school. But it was always Seth she made do all the work.
Seth tucked the piece of paper behind his ear. ‘Sure, I’ll look at it later.’ The clock was telling him there were less than three hours to go until the important dinner. He slid some tarts on to a rack to cool. ‘When d’you need it? We’re kind of busy, you know, Tiffany.’
Tiffany raised her hands and stepped back. ‘Sorry. My bad.’ Then she leant in and yanked the piece of paper out from behind his ear. ‘I’ll look at it later,’ she mimicked with a low chuckle. ‘Or how about you do it now?’
‘Well, when do you need it?’
Tiffany’s next words were almost drowned out by the loud sizzle and splatter as he put the potatoes into the oven to roast.
‘It’s for dinner tonight, obviously. I think it might be a pudding.’
Seth stopped and stared at her wide-eyed.
‘Oh, I can’t possibly do it,’ she said, ‘but let’s hope you can, or else I shall be telling my dad about you pinching that saffron. And the fish head – don’t think I didn’t notice that. Snacking on raw fish heads now, Seppi.’ Tiffany tutted and shook her head. ‘Not a good sign. Or were you stealing it for that mangy cat you’re so fond of?’
Seth took a deep breath. Tiffany always, within seconds, made his insides feel like they were tightening into such a fierce ball it made Seth picture making his hand into a fist and punching her right in the middle of those perfect teeth of hers. He swallowed it down. He smiled.
‘I only put the saffron in the soup to make it taste like it’s supposed to. That’s not stealing. Your dad wants to impress these guests.’
Tiffany grabbed a handful of the tarts Seth had just rescued. ‘And if you’re not careful you’ll be blamed for these going missing as well. Unless, of course, you’d like to help me with the – what’s it called again?’
The Last Chance Hotel Page 1
