Death by Soup

by David MacPhail

  Shand fidgeted and tried to get them to lower their voices. “Shh, please, calm down.”

  But the chef was in no mood to be shushed. He tossed his potato peeler into his other hand, like an assassin juggling his dagger, then jabbed at Ravensbury with his thick, sausagey forefinger. “Your problem is you do not understand your job. Swiss cuisine is hugely diverse. After all…” He looked round at everyone, turning on a well-meaning smile and appealing for support. “Many people say the Swiss fondue is a lost art.”

  Parek, the waiter, entered and rolled his eyes. “Oh, is he on about Swiss food again?”

  Now the chef turned on him. “YOU! What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Your food is lovely,” replied the waiter.

  “I heard you! You always criticize my food. You said my venison was like eating shoe leather. I heard you!”

  “Yes, I apologise for that…” said the waiter.

  “Good!” said the chef.

  “To shoe leather!” The waiter went on. “Your venison was even worse. It was like gnawing on a shipyard worker’s old boots.”

  The chef’s face went scarlet, and he exploded. “DAHHHH?” He chased the waiter out of the room, waving his potato peeler like a sword.

  “Well, I’m not leaving the dining room, not ’til I’m finished,” said Mrs Hackenbottom. She leaned over in my direction and muttered, “They’re trying to sell this place, you know.”

  “Really?” I acted surprised, even though it had been obvious from the Shands’ overheard argument on our arrival that they were having financial problems.

  “Oh, yes. They’re broke, Shand and his wife.”

  “I bet this place is cursed.” Grandad looked around the room ominously.

  Mrs Hackenbottom leaned even closer, and whispered, “I mean, who’d want to buy it now, eh?”

  “She is not wrong there,” said Grandad. “Diners dropping in their soup. Crazy chefs running about waving potato peelers. I do not think I would buy it.”

  The dining room was empty, apart from us and Mrs Hackenbottom. Oh, and the German golfers, who’d broken into some kind of jolly sing-song, and were all smiles and rosy cheeks, swaying from side to side in unison. They had absolutely no idea what was going on. We hung about for a bit, waiting to see if anything else might happen, and listening to the old lady swill food around her mouth. I was so hungry. I was hoping the chef would calm down enough to make me a chicken burger, but after a while it seemed like my luck was out.

  “We may as well go, I’m not going to get fed,” I said.

  “OK, dearie,” said Mum.

  “It beats hanging about here with this old trout,” huffed Grandad.

  I got up from my seat and stared down at the remains of Starkey’s soup, which had spilled over the tablecloth and the floor. Having evaded the chef, Parek the waiter came rushing in with a cloth to wipe it all up. Probably, Starkey had choked, or suffered a heart attack or something.

  Probably.

  Then I thought about the strange way he’d keeled over, the look on his face, the frothing of his lips. Yummy Cola had brought us here, I thought, perhaps for good reason. Was something dark and mysterious afoot? And if so, what did it have to do with me?

  Chapter 7

  The Soupy Suspects

  The ambulance soon arrived and the paramedics rushed into the hotel foyer. Starkey had been carried into the office behind the reception desk, and the paramedics trooped inside with a stretcher.

  “You’re too late! You’re too late!” joked Grandad.

  “That’s not even funny, Grandad!” I hissed out of the side of my mouth.

  “Ach!” He swiped his hand. “I am allowed to joke, I am the one that’s deid after all.” He waved a finger at me. “Death is not the end, you know that.”

  He was right. In Grandad’s case it was just the start of a very active and annoying afterlife.

  “I’m sending out positive thoughts for the poor man,” said Mum. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands together in meditation. A vacant, silly sort of grin appeared on her face, the kind someone gets when they ease themselves into a nice hot bath.

  Most of the people from the dining room were gathered in the reception, and the commotion was loud enough that I didn’t think anybody would notice me turning again to talk with Grandad. “Do you think it was food poisoning?”

  “You mean the normal, bacterial kind? No way,” he replied. “Plenty of other people had the soup, and it didn’t affect them. Anyway, food poisoning, with bacteria and that, takes much longer to kick in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, I should know, I used to own a restaurant. Loads of my customers came down with food poisoning, but it was always after they left.” He nodded his head knowledgably.

  Something smelt off to me, and I wasn’t talking about the food. “Did you see the way he was acting, his face? And the frothing at the mouth? And he was complaining about a funny taste and smell.” It was the other sort of poisoning that I was thinking of. The deliberate, deadly kind. “Lots of actual poisons do have a funny smell. Cyanide, for example, smells of bitter almonds.”

  “You think someone poisoned the food on purpose?” Grandad asked.

  “Yes, it’s possible. If I only knew what the funny smell was like…”

  Grandad shrugged. “I can’t smell, unfortunately. Otherwise I could have told you. And you can’t smell it now either, because it’s all been mopped up.”

  A waft of air from the open front door brought the arrival of a pair of hunting beagles, sniffing around and wagging their tails, followed by heavy footsteps.

  A tall man wearing a tweed jacket, red cords and brown brogues strode into the lobby. He was an older man with neat greying hair, but still had the swagger and bearing of someone much younger.

  His voice boomed through the hall. “What the ruddy nora is going on? Why is there an ambulance blocking my drive?”

  The porter, Arek was sweating at the foot of the stairs. “A man was taken ill, sir,” he said.

  The man glared at him for a moment, his mouth twisted to one side and one eye screwed up, like a pirate captain ogling his slovenly crew. “In that case, I suppose I’ll have to wait.” He strode round the hall like he owned the place.

  “That’s him,” whispered Mum, taking a break from her meditation. The man stopped, leaned over the display case and scrutinised the silver bell.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The guy I told you about, Lord Brightburgh. The guy who went bust and lost the whole estate.”

  “Oh.” I watched as he wandered over in our direction, nodding at Mum.

  “Good evening.”

  “Oh, hello.” Mum’s smile was even wider than usual, and her cheeks went red. “Goodness me, an actual lord! Pleased to meet you.”

  Granny narrowed her eyes and bowed, like he was an opponent at a karate tournament.

  Up close, he had a slightly hooked nose and icy blue eyes. His eyebrows seemed to have a life of their own. “Disgraceful, what they’ve done to this place,” he barked.

  He stopped at the reception desk and cast his eye round some of the gathered crowd, just as the paramedics carried the stretcher out of the office. Starkey was in a body bag, which had been partially zipped closed.

  Everyone else was staring at Starkey’s disappearing corpse, but I couldn’t help but notice how Lord Brightburgh’s face changed. It went pale. Ghostly pale. Mr Shand came rushing out of the dining room, wringing his hands. “Oh, Lord Brightburgh, good evening.”

  The lord hesitated for a moment. “Good evening, Shand,” he said eventually. “Spot of bad luck, eh?”

  “One of our guests was taken ill at dinner.”

  “I see.” Lord Brightburgh’s eyes flitted back across the room, while Shand fussed around the reception desk.

  The lord rubbed his chin. “Er, I say, Shand, could I ask for some help from one of your people, just to get my bags in the car. As soon as that ambulance moves, that is. I’
m off to Edinburgh for the night.”

  “Oh,” said Shand absently. “Er, yes, of course. Arek was here a minute ago.” He called over to the receptionist with the black hair and permanent scowl. She was wielding a long pole to forcefully shut the lobby’s high windows. “Lucy, where’s Arek gone?”

  Lucy stacked the pole in a corner. “He just went through the back,” she said tersely, rolling up her sleeves. “I’ll do it. I’m stronger than I look.” She stomped out alongside Lord Brightburgh and his dogs.

  Meanwhile I clocked a familiar figure treading discreetly up the stairs, looking over her shoulder to see if she was being watched. It was Ravensbury’s friend, Chase, carrying her green snakeskin diary under her arm.

  “She’s got suspicious written all over her. What’s she up to?” I said.

  “Shall I go after her?” asked Grandad.

  “No, we both will.” I slipped away from Mum and Granny, and sprang quietly up the stairs behind her.

  Tiptoeing down the hall past our rooms, I halted at the corner and peeked around it. Grandad’s glowing green face poked out from behind mine. Together, we watched Chase stop outside a door halfway along the corridor. She glanced over her shoulder again, and I whipped my head back under cover before she had a chance to spot me.

  I nodded Grandad forward. The best thing about a ghost sidekick was having an invisible pair of eyes.

  “Leave it to me.” He floated into the middle of the corridor. “She has got her credit card out,” he called back. “She is poking it into the side of the door and jiggling it about.” He floated towards her, out of view, as the jiggling continued. “Her surname is Whitton by the way. It says so on her bank card,” he added.

  Wow, that was actually quite useful, I thought. Grandad was getting better at detective work.

  I could hear the click as the door unlocked. “She’s in,” said Grandad.

  That was fast, I thought, she must have sprung a lock before. This woman wasn’t your average hotel guest, but then, neither was I. I could have had that lock open in half the time using my bendy plastic ruler. “The coast is clear.”

  “Whose room is it?” I mouthed at Grandad as I crept closer to the door. I nodded him forward again. “Look inside.”

  Grandad huffed. “Aw, not again. I HATE going through stuff.”

  “This is important!” I hissed.

  He sighed loudly, then took a deep breath and plunged his head through the wood of the door. “Yuck!” I heard him declare, from the other side.

  After a second’s pause, he said, “It’s a man’s room… I think it’s Starkey’s… Yes, his name tag is on the suitcase… She’s rifling through all of his stuff.”

  “What stuff?” I whispered. “Keep looking.”

  Grandad suddenly let out a moan. “Jay, she’s coming back – HIDE!”

  I didn’t have time to dash back to the end of the corridor, so I dived under a table, hoping she’d want to make a quick exit and wouldn’t notice me. Just in time too, because the door creaked open and Chase peeked out.

  Grandad staggered back, clutching his head. “Aargh! That did not feel good.”

  I clenched my eyes tight shut, waiting for her to pass. Next thing I knew a strong, determined hand gripped hold of my wrist and yanked me out from under the table.

  I found myself on the floor, staring up into Chase Whitton’s angry face.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  My eyes shot to Grandad, but he’d be no help. He was leaning over, holding his head in his hands and moaning. The woman still gripped hold of my wrist, her hand like a vice. I decided it was time for my frightened kid routine. “I… I… I don’t know, missus. I was just playing,” I said, in a small, scared voice.

  Her eyes softened. No one ever suspected a terrified kid. She leant closer and narrowed her eyes. “Tell no one you saw me here… Or else.”

  Chase flung my wrist at me, then strutted off back downstairs.

  “Jayesh, son, are you OK?” Grandad rushed over. There was worry in his eyes; even he’d fallen for it.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, springing up and brushing myself down. “And now we know for sure.”

  “Know what?” Grandad asked.

  We knew what no one else did, perhaps apart from Chase Whitton: “Starkey was murdered.”

  Chapter 8

  The Midnight Footsteps

  I bumped into Mum and Granny coming up the stairs. Mum was dangling a doggie bag at her side.

  “Food!” I cried.

  “Mainly cheese,” she replied, nibbling a piece of cheddar on a cracker. “The waiter said they had loads of it, they’re just giving it away down there.”

  I glanced down the steps to the reception lobby, where sure enough a sweaty Parek was dishing out large portions of cheese from a trolley. “Take as much as you want,” he was saying to the assembled guests. “Mr Shand made a mistake with his order at the dairy – we got too much this week.”

  Mr Shand, who was standing nearby, flushed. “You didn’t have to tell them that, you fool!”

  Back in our room, I gorged myself on cheese and crackers. A chicken burger it was not, but it was at least food.

  “What now?” asked Grandad during a quiet moment when Granny was in the toilet and it was just the two of us.

  With Mum and Granny around, I couldn’t get away with sneaking out of the room to snoop around. I’d at least have to wait until they were asleep. Which was incredibly annoying because as far as I was concerned, this was prime detecting time. There was lots of snooping to be done.

  Perhaps I couldn’t escape, but Grandad could. “You’ll have to take a look around, Grandad.”

  His lip quivered. “What, in a strange old house, in the middle of the night?”

  “You’re a ghost, Grandad! You’re the thing that normally scares people about old houses. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. You’re also my top-secret weapon. So get out there, speak to the other ghosts if you can. See if they know anything.”

  “Pff!” Grandad said. “Some hope.” He squeezed through the door. “Yuck! I HATE that!” Then he was gone.

  Meanwhile, I dug out my notebook and got to work. First of all, I drew a map of the house:

  Next, I drew up a list of suspects:

  STAFF:

  * Mr Shand: hotel owner, a bit miserable, scared of his wife!

  * Mrs Shand: hotel owner, married to Mr Shand, VERY scary.

  * Parek: waiter, sweats a lot, doesn’t seem to like his job.

  * Arek: porter, Parek’s brother (or is it the other way around?), also sweats a lot, also doesn’t seem to like his job.

  * Chef: Swiss, bit of a lunatic, obsessed with something called ‘fondue’.

  * Lucy: goth receptionist, likes scowling – a lot!

  GUESTS:

  * Vera Hackenbottom: annoying old lady!

  * Benedict Ravensbury: restaurant critic, history with the chef. Could that be a motive? Also a bit smug!

  * Chase Whitton: Ravensbury’s friend, definitely up to something – but what?

  * Mum: slightly unhinged, but definitely not the murderer.

  * Granny: completely unhinged, but definitely not the murderer.

  * Me: obviously not the murderer!

  * Grandad: deceased, so doesn’t really count!

  OTHERS

  * Lord Brightburgh: ex-owner of house, went bankrupt and had to sell up (not too happy about it either!)

  And then, on another page: “What is Chase Whitton up to?”

  As it stood, she had to be my prime suspect, so underneath I wrote: “PRIME SUSPECT”

  Thinking back to the dining room earlier, Chase mentioned that she used to be a nurse, before barging everyone out of the way to get to Starkey. Was that all a ruse to get close to him? Possibly. If his soup was poisoned then this gave her every chance of clearing away any evidence – didn’t she wipe his face with a napkin?

  Then again, if she was after something in his room, why bother to do the p
oor man in? Why, when she could just break into his room while he was at dinner and steal it for herself?

  Before long all of these questions began to chase each other inside my head, and exhausted, I dozed off.

  I dreamt about my Dad again.

  I was back at home, and we were sitting around the dinner table, the whole family. Dad too. He was just as I remembered him: his eyes hazel brown, his hair jet black. He looked alive, as alive as he was before he disappeared.

  Dad turned to me and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He was silent. I wondered why.

  Grandad, on the other hand, was yelling at me. Loudly.

  “Jayesh! Get up boy!”

  I sat bolt upright in bed. It was the middle of the night.

  “A fire?” I mumbled, stumbling out of bed, only to find Grandad stuck halfway through the door. He looked like one of the mounted stags heads downstairs in the reception, if they wore fedoras.

  “Uh, these old wooden doors,” he said. “They are a devil to get through. Did I mention I HATE walking through stuff?”

  I couldn’t say anything because I didn’t want to wake Granny up. She’s an extremely light sleeper, and it was a miracle that I hadn’t woken her up already.

  He tutted. “Hurry up, boy! There’s something going on downstairs.”

  I creeped over and eased open the door, and he fell out with a loud SCHLHHLOPP, collapsing on the ground. “Uhh, I hate being a ghost,” he groaned. As quietly as possible, I crept down the hall after Grandad. The corridor was pitch black and deathly silent. I imagined all the weird statues staring down at me, and the faces in the old paintings. It kind of gave me the creeps. It was dark down in the lobby too, the only faint light coming from lamps outside the windows.