Death by Soup

by David MacPhail

  I stood up too, taking great pains to be super-polite. “Not at all. Thank you for your time.” I turned towards the door, then hesitated. “You were away last night, weren’t you? You missed all the trouble here. Did you hear about it?”

  “Ah, yes. Ah yes, the police, they called at my friend’s house in Edinburgh early this morning to deliver the news.” If that were true, then Fallon was at least on the ball with something. He’d correctly identified that Lord Brightburgh was the main suspect, and he’d checked out his alibi right away.

  “Early?” I repeated.

  “Very early. The sun had only just come up.” He yawned. If that was true it meant the only way Lord Brightburgh could have been involved in stealing the bell was with an accomplice.

  Lord Brightburgh hovered over a large stack of papers on the bureau. I couldn’t see much, but I could make out a few of the larger words, such as ‘LEGAL’ and ‘DEEDS’. I also noticed a few red reminder bills tucked into the pile. Now, for the first time, he looked like an old man. His face had taken on a drawn, confused appearance. He scratched his head. “Er, yes, well, I really must be getting on.” Maybe the swaggering was all just a front.

  As he shut the yellow front door behind me, I thought deeply about his alibi, and if there was any other way around it. But there wasn’t.

  Chapter 18

  The Cyanide Fondue

  I passed Granny on the way back to the hotel entrance. She was out near the woodpile, chopping pieces of wood with her own hands. Absolutely slaughtering them in fact. There were splinters of wood flying all over the place.

  “HI-YAAA!”

  I hoped the police weren’t watching, because sometimes when a certain glint came into Granny’s eyes she looked like a murderous psychopath. From time to time, I wondered if she actually was a murderous psychopath.

  Inside, the few guests that remained were milling about in the dining room. Mum was there, sitting in a corner with her legs crossed, her hands raised and her eyes closed.

  “OMMMMMM!”

  This time there was no escape from Mrs Hackenbottom, who nabbed me by the arm as I passed. She had a disconcertingly strong grip for such a frail old lady.

  “Have you found anything out, my boy?” She stared at me searchingly.

  I didn’t want to give anything away, so I settled for something mysterious. “I think there’s more to this thing than meets the eye. What about you?”

  She leaned towards me and grinned, like a maniacal goblin with false teeth. “Oh, I’ve done more than that. I’ve found the murderer.”

  “Really?” There was no way this smug old nosey parker had managed to uncover the killer already.

  “Oh yes, and in the true spirit of an Agatha Christie book, I’m going to reveal who it is once everyone is together. I telephoned the Inspector a moment ago, and he will be here shortly.”

  At that moment Parek emerged from the kitchen carrying a stack of plates. As the door swung open I felt sure I could hear a muffled ghostly wail from somewhere.

  “HELLLLPP!”

  Then the door swung shut and the cry stopped abruptly, only for me to hear it again when the waiter returned to the kitchen.

  “HELLLLPPP!”

  It was Grandad, sounding very much like he was in trouble.

  “Grandad?” I said, forgetting I was in company.

  “Grandad?” repeated Mrs Hackenbottom, puzzled.

  Mum broke out of her trance and patted me on the arm, smiling. “He’s in heaven, dearie.” She looked at Mrs Hackenbottom, leaned her head to one side and gave a tight-lipped smile. “He’s always talking to his grandad.”

  “How lovely,” said Mrs Hackenbottom. “You must have been very close.”

  “Oh, they were,” nodded Mum.

  “Oh, you’ve no idea!” I smiled.

  “Oh?” The old lady gave me a curious look.

  The waiter emerged from the kitchen again, this time carrying a tray of cutlery and napkins. The sound of wailing returned.

  “HELLLLP MEEEEE!”

  “Excuse me a sec.” I ducked away, gingerly sneaking through the closing kitchen door.

  The chef was preparing a couple of large platters. The first one was stacked with cream-topped waffles and pieces of chopped fruit: pineapples, strawberries, pears. In the middle was a steaming pot of chocolate sauce. The second one had chopped vegetables and meat, and little chunks of bread, artfully arranged around a bubbling pot of cheese. This was the famous Swiss fondue, no doubt. It smelt delicious, and I was still so hungry… Focus, Jay!

  The chef looked up from his work and eyed me with suspicion. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

  “Er, well…” I sidled along the wall in the direction of the wailing. “I’m writing an article for our school magazine, it’s about Swiss cuisine. I was hoping to ask you a few questions?”

  Ah, the old ‘article for the school magazine’ – a slight variation on ‘doing a school project’, but it worked just as well.

  He stared at me for a few seconds, trying to work out if I was joking. The trick was to keep your face serious, open and honest. “You know,” I said, nodding at the huge platters, “some say that Swiss fondue is a lost art.”

  Suddenly, all his suspicion fell away and he sighed with relief, as if at last he’d found someone who understood. “Yes! It is a lost art!”

  I could hear Grandad’s voice nearby. It seemed to be coming from behind a big metal door in the corner of the kitchen.

  “HELLLPPP! JAYESHHH!”

  “What’s in there?” I asked innocently.

  “My pantry,” replied the chef, at which point Parek returned – or was it Arek? I hadn’t yet worked it out which was his real name. The chef lifted one of the platters and shoved it at him, then picked the other one up himself. “Now, I am going to take these beautiful fondues out into the dining room. These will cheer everyone up. No one can be sad when eating Swiss cuisine – it is the finest food in the world. Do not touch anything! I will return in a minute to answer all your questions.”

  As soon as they backed out with the platters I yanked the handle on the heavy metal door and dragged it open. My ghostly grandad crawled out, breathless and even greener than usual. He was so relieved he began kissing my feet.

  “Thank you! Oh, thank you! Son, I was running out of air in there.”

  “You don’t even need air,” I said. “How many times do I have to tell you, you’re a ghost!”

  “Do not be rude!” He floated into a standing position.

  “I don’t get it! You saved my life about an hour ago, pushing me out of the way of a ton of falling rock, and now you’ve gone back to not being able to walk through doors. That’s Ghosting for Beginners – Lesson 1.”

  “I was too tired to even try! You don’t understand… Pushing you, that really took it out of me.” His greenish face loomed into mine. “Jayesh, you have to listen. It is the chef. You have to stop him!”

  “What?”

  “He did it! He poisoned the food. And he is going to do it again. I saw him take something out of the pantry. That’s why I followed him in. I saw the jar myself. It is poison – that one you mentioned last night – cyanide.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It is poison, I tell you!” he cried.

  “But he’s just taken the food out…” I turned as the sound of excited chatter rose from the dining room.

  “You have got to stop him, boy! Now!”

  A good detective should always think before he acts. On this occasion that’s definitely what I should have done, but I didn’t. I burst into the dining room, with Grandad close behind. The chef was setting a fondue platter down on the table, the big fancy one with fruit and chocolate and oodles and oodles of cream. There was more oohing and aahing from the guests, and some smiles. One of the German golfers had his camera phone out and was filming it. The chef was right, the fondue was cheering them up, but if what Grandad said was true, that happiness would be very short-lived.
There was nothing for it – I had to act, and fast.

  “Stop that man!” I cried, and flung myself at the chef’s back.

  Chapter 19

  The Splattered Platter

  The chef was three times the size of me, at least. I had no hope of bringing him down, but I did manage to knock him off balance. He stumbled forward, clattering against the table.

  “AAARGH!”

  The fondue platter went flying, vomiting a mixture of fruit, cream and chocolate sauce all over the place: the carpet, the walls, the curtains and people’s shoes.

  SPLAT!

  The chef’s hat slipped over his eyes, and he staggered about, as if blind. Yanking it back into place, he eyed me with what could only be described as homicidal rage. He grabbed a tiny fondue fork, his knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip.

  “I will KILL you!” he snarled, though when he said it in his Swiss accent, it sounded more like “KEEL”.

  “See!” said Grandad. “He’s the keell-er!”

  The chef looked down at the splatter of chocolate on his once pristine tunic. “That was my special fondue sauce, made with ci—”

  “CYANIDE!” interrupted Grandad.

  “Cyanide!” I repeated, for those who were unable to hear the voices of the dead. So, everyone except me.

  “He put cyanide in it. He is the poisoner, thank you very much!” cried Grandad.

  “Cyanide!?” replied the chef furiously. “CYANIDE? I will KEEL you!”

  Parek the waiter knelt down and scooped up a globule of the chocolate sauce from the top of his shoe with his finger.

  “DON’T!” yelled Grandad, raising his arms as if he could somehow stop him.

  Parek stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked.

  “Mmmmm,” he said, nodding. “Cinnamony. For once something you have made is actually edible.”

  “Cinnamony?” I repeated.

  One of the German men also scooped up a bit from the curtain hanging next to him and dabbed his tongue with it, before nodding enthusiastically. “Ja! Cinnamon, ist gut, ja!”

  “Of course it’s cinnamon, you fool!” cried the chef.

  “Oh, right,” mumbled Grandad, looking shifty. He touched the side of his head with his finger, sucked his teeth, then balanced his hands like a set of scales. “Heh… cinnamon… cyanide. My eyesight is not what it used to be. It’s an easy mistake to make.”

  “What?!” I stared around at all the hostile and accusing faces glaring at me as if, well, as if I’d just spoiled their only nice surprise on what had been a pretty rotten day.

  “Oh, Jay,” said Mum. “What have you done?” She sounded a little bit angry, but not angry enough to stop her scraping up the last of the cream on the platter with her finger, then plopping it in her mouth. “Mmmmm!”

  I turned to Grandad, shooting daggers at him. “I’m going to KEEL you!”

  I couldn’t believe he had been so stupid. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid. I’d just gone and made a colossal idiot of myself, all because my daft ghost of a grandad couldn’t tell the difference between a common kitchen spice and a lethal poison. I held my head in my hands.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  Shand burst into the dining room. “What’s going on?”

  Fallon pushed in behind him. Mrs Hackenbottom seemed to take this as a cue, hobbling into the centre of the room and dramatically clearing her throat. “I’m glad you got my phone message, Inspector.”

  “I drove straight back,” barked Fallon, his bushy eyebrows forming a fierce furry line along his forehead. “Now what is it that’s so important?”

  “Well,” she said, grinning like the (very old) cat that got the cream, lapping up all the attention. “I’m afraid this young man here is barking up the wrong tree. For I,” she tapped herself on the chest, “Vera Hackenbottom, have discovered who the culprit really is. Yes, I have discovered the cold-blooded killer in our midst.”

  I stared at her, shocked and disbelieving. Had this annoying old windbag actually beaten me to it? Had she gone and solved the crime before me?

  Mrs Hackenbottom turned and slowly eyed each member of the assembled crowd. All that could be heard in the tense silence was a few nervous gulps, and one of the German golfers taking a sneaky selfie. A satisfied grin spread across the old woman’s face as she stopped, raised her cane and pointed it at a disbelieving Mr Shand. “It was YOU!”

  Chapter 20

  The Wolfsbane Warning

  Everyone gasped, not least Shand. “What? Me? D-Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him!” cried Parek.

  “Look in his pockets,” suggested Mrs Hackenbottom. “The proof is in there somewhere, I’m willing to bet.”

  Parek grabbed Shand by the wrist, and the two men struggled. Fallon kept his eyes fixed on Mrs Hackenbottom while the waiter rummaged around in his boss’s pockets.

  “H-How dare you!” Shand stuttered. “I’m your employer.”

  “Yes! And a rubbish one at that,” Parek replied.

  Shand’s eyes shot to Fallon, opening out his free hand in a gesture of appeal. “You should arrest this man instead.”

  Fallon stared back, unmoved, while Shand finally freed himself and turned on his employee. “You and that brother of yours. You’re the ones behind this! It’s got to be you. Twins are suspicious.”

  “That’s what I said!” chimed Grandad.

  I hadn’t forgiven him for the cyanide blunder, so gave him a quick death stare before stepping forward. “I’m sorry, but Parek isn’t the murderer. In fact, he’s not even a twin.”

  Everyone turned to me, perplexed. “Mr Shand, your waiter, Parek, and your porter, Arek, aren’t Parek and Arek at all, they’re just Arek. Or is it Parek? I’m not sure.” I looked at the waiter questioningly, but was met with a dark glare. “Anyhoo, they’re the same person. Haven’t you noticed that they’re never in the same place at the same time? Haven’t you asked yourself why they’re always running about with sweat pouring off them? It’s hard work doing two jobs at once.”

  Shand took all this in, then scrutinised the waiter’s features. The hotel manager’s face whitened and he gasped. “I should have known! One of you was always slinking off. I’ve been paying salaries to both of you.” He turned to Fallon. “Arrest this man! This is fraud!”

  The waiter guffawed. “It is Arek, by the way. And both salaries were rubbish! You were not paying either of us enough. Is it any wonder I pretended to be two people?” Now he appealed to Fallon, yelling, “He’s the one who should be arrested for breach of human rights!”

  “You’re fired, both of you!” yelled Shand.

  “There’s only one of him,” I reminded the furious hotel manager.

  Mrs Hackenbottom bellowed over us all, a hint of annoyance in her voice, “Now, LOOK! Will you please be quiet. I am trying to expose a murderer here!”

  Arek went back to rummaging in Shand’s jacket pockets. He found nothing in the outside ones, but succeeded in pulling a small, clear plastic pouch out of the inside breast pocket.

  “What on earth!” exclaimed Shand. He looked just as surprised as everyone else.

  The contents seemed to be some kind of dried herb, with a white printed label stuck on the front, which the waiter then held up to the light.

  “It says: ‘Wolfsbane. Warning – poison! Do not ingest, can cause vomiting, diarrhoea, and DEATH.’”

  I’d heard of Wolfsbane. It’s a plant, often used as a poison, a potent one – one that was even capable of killing in strong enough doses.

  Arek took a cautionary sniff, and recoiled. “Smells awful.”

  “Here, let me.” I leant forward to sniff it. “Woah! That’s rancid!”

  I turned to Grandad, speaking in a low murmur. “Remember the smell Starkey mentioned before he died?” Grandad nodded. “I bet that’s it.”

  “It’s not mine,” Shand cried. “I swear it!”

  “DI Fallon,” said Mrs Hackenbottom, “tha
t is a packet of deadly herbs, which Mr Shand here used to poison the food.”

  The chef brandished his fondue fork at Shand. “I will KEEL you for poisoning my beautiful food.”

  Shand backed off. “No, it wasn’t me!” He looked from face to face. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I mean, why would I—”

  The chef came at him fast. Shand whimpered, then turned and fled into the lobby.

  Mrs Hackenbottom leaned towards me and flicked her hand. “There you go, you see. That’s how it’s done. Case solved.”

  “Smug old bat,” grunted Grandad.

  Fallon had remained impassive the whole way through. Even now he gave just a narrow smile to the shocked onlookers. “Excuse me.” He stepped out of the room.

  None of this made any sense, but Mrs Hackenbottom’s outburst hadn’t altogether surprised me. I caught Grandad’s eye and nodded towards the kitchen door. He followed me inside.

  “Do you think she is right? Do you think it was Shand?” he asked.

  “What, sabotage his own hotel? Nah, I’m still not buying it. If he’s really trying to sell then all he’ll do is lower the price. Murder is bad for business – he had no motive for killing Starkey or Chase Whitton.”

  And what about the silver bell? Mrs Hackenbottom hadn’t even mentioned it. I could just about buy the idea of Shand faking the antique’s theft, although he couldn’t sell it on the open market – he admitted himself that it was protected. Maybe if he had an insurance policy on it… But still, I wasn’t convinced.

  We returned to the dining room, where everyone, including Mum, was congratulating Mrs Hackenbottom for solving the case. Meanwhile, out in reception, the chef was banging his fists like an outraged gorilla on the office door.