“I wanted to talk to you about the state of my health,” she continued, patting the seat next to her as an invitation to sit. Resigned, Ankh sat. The tone of her voice, Ankh noticed, exactly matched that of the eldest of Pharaoh’s three wives. This ancient Egyptian queen had been a hypochondriac, convinced she was dying of a different disease every week. In the end, of course, she had died in the same manner as Ankh – namely, she had been killed, mummified and buried in the Pharaoh’s tomb to be with him in the afterlife. “I just have a general feeling of malaise,” Penny explained. “Like something’s not quite right.”
You’re bored and you don’t get enough attention, Ankh silently diagnosed. Instead, he said, “Why don’t you come by my office tomorrow?”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Penny. “I also suffer from terrible headaches. My doctor back home doesn’t know what to do! Maybe you can help me. Oh, and I seem to have done something to my left elbow, it goes all funny when I bend it like this. Plus, there’s a mole on my back I’m a little concerned about…” she turned her back to Ankh and began to lift her spangley top to show him. Viktor left them to it.
There was very little to hear at the table occupied by the two teenage boys who had arrived with the history woman, as all of them were tucking into second helpings of dessert, brought to them by an eager-to-please Edgar. At least that group did not seem too demanding, although he was concerned that the woman had seemed to be snooping earlier.
The third travel agent and her sulky daughter were standing at the Professor’s table. Although the Professor was physically attending the party, as requested, he might as well have been miles away as far as interaction with the guests went. He had brought several sheets of blueprints with him and was studying these documents through a brass and glass lens affixed to his right eye by means of a metal headband. He was furiously amending details of the plans using a grease pencil. “Excuse me,” Doreen was saying for the third time, while Peaches hung back and stared at her, shooting daggers.
This time, the Professor heard her. He looked up, saw the large, bubbly blonde woman made even larger by his optical magnifier, and leapt to his feet. “Fräulein!” he said. Then his eyes fell on what she held in her hands, and his face lit up. “How may I help you? Something is broken, yes?”
“Yes,” Doreen said, sitting, and motioning Peaches over to join her. The young teen sloped grudgingly to the table, but wouldn’t sit. “Peaches here is having problems with her MP3 player. We were wondering if there was anything you could do to fix it.”
The Professor nodded and snatched the machine from Doreen. He examined it a moment. “Ah yes, yes, it is a music box, ja? I can fix.”
Viktor turned to the final table in the room. This was taken up by the married couple, Rachel and Phil Whitely, who were the owners of a publishing company specialising in travel books for package holidaymakers, and Ken Trepid, just arriving with an after dinner coffee. Viktor knew that Ken frequently called himself the world’s foremost independent travel expert, and was hoping for a favourable review from him. They introduced themselves. “Ken Trepid, pleased to meetcha,” the younger man said, thrusting out a bronzed hand. Both Phil and Rachel shook it in turn, and gave their names, with Rachel adding that they owned Departure Lounge Publications, and then watching Ken very carefully. “Sure, sure,” Ken said. “That’s just great.”
Rachel wrinkled her forehead. “You were one of the guest speakers at the Travel Writer’s Institute conference last year in Paris, weren’t you, Mr. Trepid?”
“Please, call me Ken,” Ken said, not answering her.
“How horrible was that buffet dinner?” Rachel said to him.
“Oh, yeah,” he agreed. “You’d think the French would know how to cook, eh? Listen, excuse me, but I forgot to put sugar in this coffee.” He got to his feet, nodded at the couple and wandered back to the bar, coffee cup in hand.
Unfortunately, at that moment, the history woman hesitantly approached Viktor’s table, causing him to miss the conversation that followed, namely Rachel hissing to Phil, “I don’t think that’s Ken Trepid!”
“What? How do you mean?” her husband replied. “Looks like the guy to me,”
“Weren’t you listening? Firstly, he didn’t react to me saying we owned Departure Lounge Publications, even though he wrote once that we’re the scum of the Earth for encouraging ‘bland, identikit package holidays’.” She made her fingers into little quote marks. “And then he said that the food at the Paris buffet was horrible – but remember, we didn’t even get to eat because that waiter knocked over the whole table? And also, he’s drinking coffee!”
“So?”
“So, Ken Trepid was in the paper last week calling for a boycott of coffee until growers are paid fair wages.”
Phil shrugged. “Sometimes people say one thing and do another,” he pointed out.
“I wonder,” Rachel replied.
#
Lisa had downed a couple of whiskeys to build up the courage to approach Viktor. Once she started talking about the castle, however, her enthusiasm for the topic won out over her shyness, and it took all of Viktor’s considerable charm for him to politely escape. In the end, he had agreed to give a history lecture to the blasted teenagers she had in tow. As if he wanted to dredge up the castle’s past! Happy with this answer, she had scooted away to report her success to her charges. Viktor looked at his watch. Was it too early to leave the party? He thought not. As he stood, he gave the room one more quick scan, and then froze. Someone was missing. Where was Albert Fisher? Not with Sir Osis, and not with his wife and child. Had he left the room? Suddenly, there was an almighty crash from the kitchen, and Viktor had his answer.
Chapter Seventeen
“How’s it going, Harriet?” Skully asked as soon as she appeared in his kitchen. He was putting delicate petit four chocolates onto plates to be served with coffee, picking up each one by using his skeletal fingers like chopsticks.
“Alright,” Harriet said. “There have been hiccups, of course. But we’re not sunk yet. And of course your work has been excellent. Everyone just loves the food.”
“Naturally,” Skully agreed, putting down the chocolates and manually waggling his fake eyebrows at her. Harriet studied him for a moment. She wondered why he felt it necessary to wear an apron and a chef’s hat. If he spilt food on himself (which was unlikely, given how skinny he was) well, then he could just wipe it off. Bones were easy to keep clean. And it wasn’t as if he had any hair that might drop into the food, since he’d taken off his dreadlocks in order to put on the hat. Perhaps wearing the uniform made him feel good?
Boo, Sue and Lou materialised at that moment, standing shoulder to shoulder. They were all wearing uniforms too – old-fashioned black and white maid outfits, complete with little white frilly caps. Given they could project their images in any item of clothing they desired, Harriet supposed they must have chosen these ones as a mark of professionalism or pride in their work. She approved.
“Ladieeees,” said Skully. “You are right on time. I have a lot of dishes for you to do.” He waved his bony arms wildly around. “Enjoy!” Harriet could see that he wasn’t kidding. Every surface of the kitchen was covered with the remains of sticky sauces, creamy custards and gooey gumbos.
“Yes, Mr. Skully,” Lou said. “We just need to talk to Miss Fullmoon first.”
“What is it?” Harriet asked the sisters, her stomach twisting in anticipation of the next crisis. “Problems?”
“Well, not really,” Sue answered her. “It’s just that we wanted to get a start on the room cleaning, and…”
Harriet cut her off. “What, now? During the party? At most hotels, the maids work in the mornings. I thought I told you this.”
“We just thought that since all the guests are out of their rooms, we’d do a quick tidy. You know, sort of like a practice run.”
“Okay… and…?”
“Well, everything was fine, except that we couldn’t get into
one of the rooms.”
“What do you mean, couldn’t get in? Was someone using it?”
“Oh no,” Boo answered. “It was quite empty. But I tried to pop in and… well… I sort of bounced out again.”
“Bounced out?”
“Mmm. And then Lou tried, and then Sue. None of us could enter.”
Harriet thought for a moment. “Have you been into that room before? Whose is it?”
“Mr. Trepid’s. And yes, we made the bed and set out clean towels for him just before he arrived.”
Harriet thought again. “Alright,” she said at last. “Let’s leave it for now. If you can’t get in tomorrow morning, let me know.”
The three sisters nodded their agreement, and then began to attack the mountain of dishes. It was easier for them to dematerialise in order to do this, so in short order, it appeared as if dirty plates and bowls, knives and forks and pots and pans were zipping through the air, plunging into hot soapy water, flying under the cold tap and then whizzing onto drying racks all by themselves. The sisters hummed a melody as they worked, and Skully chimed in with improvised lyrics. Harriet decided to leave them to it. She was walking towards the kitchen door when it opened unexpectedly in her face. She stepped backwards and was alarmed to see one of the guests coming through.
“Mr. Fisher!” she exclaimed at the top of her voice, warning the others. There was a sudden crash behind her, followed by a clatter and then the soft clinking of bones settling on bones. “This is a staff area, Sir,” Harriet went on, blocking Albert Fisher’s way with her body.
“Nonsense,” the man replied, side stepping her. “I’ve just come to give my compliments to the chef. Credit where credit’s due and all that. I’m a man who likes his food and no mistake,” he went on, patting his ample stomach, “but tonight’s meal really took the cake. So where’s the man of the hour? Oh dear. What’s happened here then? Trouble with the domestics?” He was looking at the destruction that had been wrought in the kitchen. Broken dishes littered the floor and bench-tops wherever the startled sisters had dropped what they were holding. One saucer still spun in lazy circles in a puddle of water on the draining board. Harriet noticed with alarm that Skully had not had time to hide. He had simply collapsed where he stood, leaving an apron concertinaed between a pile of bones, topped by a skull and a floppy chef’s hat. Mr. Fisher hadn’t noticed yet, and so Harriet sidled past him and began to sneakily push the pile to one side with her foot. “Wait up there,” Albert stopped Harriet, placing a big meaty hand on her arm. She could happily have bit it. In fact, the hackles on the back of her neck began to rise, and she had to concentrate on maintaining her composure. Albert now bent to examine the bundle on the floor. “What have we here? A skeleton, eh, in chef’s clothing? Someone’s having a sick joke, are they?”
“Apparently so,” Harriet murmured. “The…uh…skeleton is Dr. Ehl Bone’s specimen from his days at medical school,” she improvised. “Someone was obviously having a joke at chef’s expense.”
“Someone, eh? But there’s no one else here.” Albert winked at her. “Don’t worry, love, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell the boss-man what you’ve been up to.” Suddenly he reached down and pulled Skully off the ground to look at him closely. “I see you’ve put glass eyes in there too,” he chuckled. Then, using his hands he opened and closed the jaw of the skull in a bizarre form of ventriloquism and said through gritted teeth, “Only you’d better get that mess of broken dishes cleared up before you get into trouble, eh?” With a great guffaw, he dropped the skull and stood upright. “I don’t know where your chef’s got himself off to, but I suppose I’ll have to congratulate him later. I do hope all the meals will be so good.” Now he noticed the petits fours on their plates, and his eyes lit up. “Mmm, don’t mind if I do,” he said, scooping up a fistful of the chocolates. “Cheerio,” he said through a full mouth, and departed.
Her head beginning to pound, Harriet checked that he had really departed, and then locked the door. She wedged a kitchen stool under the handle for good measure. “He’s gone,” Harriet said.
At once the sisters materialised, and began to get to work tidying the mess, all the while muttering about what an ill-mannered man Mr. Fisher was. Skully stood up, full of wounded pride and huffily started to align himself. He was wired together, but sometimes the wires twisted, particularly if he had suddenly dropped into a pile. He disentangled the apron strings from his ribs, and sat his chef’s hat back on his head. Satisfied, he pushed his eyebrows low on his brow-ridge and said angrily, “Who does that man think he is? Using me like a puppet! Well, I’ll show him. All his meals from now on are going to be… extra special!”
“It’s my fault,” Harriet said. “I forgot to lock the door behind me. I guess no one in the dining hall noticed him leaving. That’s an oversight we’ve got to fix. And now he’ll be expecting to meet a chef at some stage. Oh, what a trial!” She massaged her temples for a moment. “Well done, by the way. You all responded very quickly.”
“We aim to please,” Skully said. “Now let’s get Edgar in here and start serving out these chocolates.”
Harriet sent Edgar in, the chocolates went out, the party raged on, and finally all the guests drifted happily off to their bedrooms. The staff breathed a collective sigh of relief. “One day down,” Harriet said to them. “Only six to go.”
#
“I don’t believe you,” said Hayden. Craig’s story had been ridiculous and he was surprised that Lisa seemed to be going along with it. Did they think he was an idiot? He didn’t want to be rude to Lisa, since she’d arranged this trip, but he hated to be teased. He knew others thought him an easy target. He sat on the edge of his bed, arms crossed defiantly.
“Alright,” said Craig. “We’ll prove it.” He went over to the suit of armour and began once again to prise the sword away from the gauntlet. Odd – but when they had returned from dinner, their room had been completely tidy once more, with everything put away, the surfaces spotless, and the armour back to normal and highly polished. Poor maids, Lisa had thought, having to work at dinnertime.
“What are you doing?” Hayden demanded.
“Come with us,” Craig said, and marched into the bathroom.
“Oh, I see!” Lisa exclaimed.
Once they were all crammed into the bathroom, Lisa opened the shower door, and pressed the massage button. Nothing happened. She then stood aside, and let Craig into the shower. While Hayden watched on sceptically, Craig wedged the end of the sword into a crack in the tiles and heaved. The tile slid suddenly to one side, and a sickly green arm shot out from the depths beyond as if propelled by a spring. It slammed into the sword which trembled in Craig’s hands. The sword easily sliced through the arm, peeling back some of the skin and flesh. Hayden staggered backwards, cracking his tailbone against the vanity unit. He stared in horror at the hideous arm, slowly matching it in colour. Then he rushed to the toilet and was violently sick. Lisa felt much the same.
“See?” said Craig, poking the arm with the tip of the sword. “Told you so.”
#
Violetta stood in the quiet kitchen absorbing the tranquillity of the night. The salty tang of the sheep’s blood slowly warming in the pot on the stove was almost inviting. She must be hungry, she mused. It had been a trying few weeks, keeping up her pretence, and today was the worst. Not only had her day/night sleep cycles been necessarily reversed, but she had needed to go out into the daylight, she had needed to enthral two humans without any blood reward for doing so, and she had needed to pretend to be polite to some of the vilest humans she had ever met. As she reached for a glass mug, she consoled herself with the thought that it would soon be time to make her move. At her feet, Ebony suddenly stiffened. The cat had sensed something. Without turning from the stove, Violetta narrowed her eyes, pricked up her ears and widened her nostrils. She could smell someone behind her, standing just in the doorway. There was the faint odour of spices, – cloves, she thought. Viktor.
She heard him open his mouth, as if about to speak, but then he closed it again, and was suddenly gone, vanishing into mist. Ebony flattened herself to the floor and uttered a low growl.
Becoming a vampire cat had not made much difference to Ebony. In the past she had hunted rabbits, rats, mice and birds, and eaten them. Now she hunted rabbits, rats, mice and birds and drank their blood, sometimes leaving behind a little desiccated corpse, sometimes allowing larger prey to escape once she’d had enough. On the whole, drinking was better than eating, Ebony thought. No longer would she have to work around fur, avoid tails and feet, crunch through bone, or inadvertently taste the contents of something’s bowels. She had also developed even more acute hearing and vision, seeing now in colour, and extra ability to run and jump. There was a downside, of course. She could no longer curl up in a beam of sunlight for fear of smouldering, and other cats avoided her.
While Ebony wound figure eights around the ankles of her mistress, Violetta finished filling the mug, and then put down a saucer of warm blood for the cat. The sheep’s blood was horrible. Briefly, Violetta entertained the idea of finding Dan’s room and helping herself to his blood, but being caught feasting now would ruin everything, so she forced herself to choke down the contents of the mug. Cat and woman stood in companionable silence until both had finished and licked their lips, then padded together on silent feet through to the library.
Here again Violetta sensed something not quite right. She concentrated again on her senses, but this time it was an older smell that disturbed her. Humans had been in this room, probably a few hours ago. Two of the people from the history group, she realised, and the hunchback. Why had they been here together? Ebony curled up on one of the leather wingback chairs, becoming just another puddle of darkness in the moonlit room.
Violetta didn’t turn on any lights. Her vision was good enough to read the titles as she searched along the shelves. She pulled out the legal history book that she had re-discovered only two nights ago, turned to a remembered page number and re-read the text.
The Last Resort Page 14
