The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Lucerne

by Katrina Nannestad

  But Lady P seemed to miss the joke. She clutched at her chest and gave a little yelp.

  Freja sprang to her feet. ‘Are you okay? Should I call the nurse?’

  Lady P’s eyes blinked frantically for a moment, then stilled. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed. ‘I had the strangest thoughts just now. Scary thoughts. Silly thoughts. Old-lady concussion thoughts. Such a jumble.’

  She patted Freja’s hand and forced a smile onto her lips once more. ‘But I’m fine now. No need for grumpy nurses or prodding doctors. How about you tell me once more about the cocoa-dusted truffles and how they made you sneeze the cream off your hot chocolate. I’m a vigorous sneezer myself, you know. It comes with having such a large nose. Of course, you haven’t seen my nose in all its glory, but when the bandages are removed, you’ll be able to marvel at its length and breadth. In fact, when I am truly better, you and I might organise some sort of sneezing competition that involves cocoa powder and cayenne pepper and bowls full of whipped cream.’

  ‘Cream,’ murmured Clementine.

  Freja sprang to her feet. ‘Clementine! You’re awake!’

  But her mother’s eyes remained closed.

  Freja’s shoulders slumped. She leaned forward, kissed the pale thin cheek and whispered, ‘I love, love, love you, Mummy Darling Heart.’

  Clementine sighed. ‘Love . . . Freja . . . Always.’

  It was barely a breath.

  But it was enough.

  It was everything.

  And Freja decided, right there and then, that she would give Clementine everything in return. She would be brave. She would be strong. She would be there when Clementine needed her. She would never run away again.

  ‘I love you, Clementine,’ she said, her voice now loud and firm. ‘Always.’

  CHAPTER 30

  Screams and thuds and pillows and pokes

  Manfred met Freja at the front steps of the clinic. He was driving Tobias’ motorcycle and Finnegan was in the sidecar. Finnegan leapt out before they came to a halt, bounded up the steps and leapt at the girl. He whimpered and licked and dribbled and grinned and made a wet mushy mess of Freja’s face and hair and collar.

  Climbing off the motorcycle, Manfred pushed up his riding goggles, clicked his heels, bowed and announced, ‘Guten Nachmittag, Fräulein Freja. Herr Appleby has been detained with his work, so it is my pleasure to escort you back to the castle.’

  Manfred was a far better driver than Tobias. He didn’t even look like veering off the road, taking a wrong turn or crashing into a hedge. In fact, the trip might have been disappointingly dull, if it hadn’t been for Finnegan. The dog sat wedged into the sidecar in front of the girl, his head turned back so that his tongue could flap in the breeze and flap across Freja’s cheek at the same time. He turned forward every minute or two to gulp at the oncoming wind and let out a yip of delight before turning back and letting the breeze catch his tongue once more.

  They had barely come to a halt at the rear of Hotel Schloss der Freude, when the sound of shouting met their ears. Freja couldn’t make out the words, but there was a man’s voice, deep and angry, and a woman’s voice, scared and pleading.

  ‘Aah,’ said Manfred, pulling off his helmet and goggles and nodding. ‘They are still at it.’

  ‘Beast! Fiend!’ shouted the woman. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Boof!’ Finnegan leapt from the sidecar and disappeared into the castle.

  ‘Nein!’ shouted the man. ‘I will make sure that you remain silent once and for all!’

  ‘Ooh-aah!’ gasped Freja. She leapt out of the sidecar and dragged Manfred off the motorcycle. ‘That sounds serious. Nasty. Deadly.’

  Manfred chuckled. ‘Ja! Ja! It has been going on all after—’

  ‘Aaaaargh!’ The woman’s screams were now desperate. ‘You monster! Let me go!’

  Freja did not wait for Manfred. She ran towards the sound — over the gravel, into the castle, along the service corridor, through the foyer and the bar, out onto the terrace.

  ‘Beast!’ A woman was struggling with a man at the third-storey window of one of the turrets. A plump old woman with grey hair. She wore a white scarf on her head and a white apron over a rough brown smock. Freja frowned, confused. Why was the woman dressed like a peasant? Did Switzerland still have peasants? But then she realised none of this was so very important when a defenceless old woman was about to be thrown from a turret by . . . by . . .

  ‘Herr Basil!’ shrieked Freja.

  But it was too late.

  Herr Basil roared, then tossed the old woman out of the window!

  Freja tried to look away, but was unable to move a single muscle. The woman fell, apron flapping, arms flailing, down, down, down to the terrace. She landed out of sight behind a row of potted cumquat trees.

  And then she bounced back up again!

  ‘Huh?!’ gasped Freja.

  The woman rose up as high as the second-storey window, legs pedalling in thin air, then fell again.

  A moment later, she bounced back up again, this time barely reaching the first-storey window.

  And that was all that Freja saw, because she fainted.

  ‘I say, old chap, that was quite a sound you made when your head hit the terrace.’ Tobias smiled as he leaned over her, but his green eyes were filled with concern. ‘I have recorded it in my notebook as “a sickening thud, a solid donk, a clunk-and-mush of brain and bone”.’ He tugged at his ear and chuckled. ‘You also gave a rather strange grunt. Quite loud for such a small girl — more what one would expect from a large bear or a walrus. But I don’t suppose bears and walruses go around fainting on terraces so very often.’

  Freja stared up from where she lay on the flagstones. She gave a little yelp as the old peasant woman’s head appeared beside Tobias’.

  ‘You’re alive,’ Freja whispered.

  ‘But of course!’ The woman smiled and pulled off her scarf and long grey wig to reveal the head of Madame Belmont. ‘There is a trampoline behind the cumquats. I used to be an acrobat in a circus, you know. I may be old and not so sprightly as I once was, but I am still very clever with the ropes and swings and trampolines. One never loses such skills.’

  Herr Basil’s wide face now appeared above Freja. ‘Fräulein Freja!’ he boomed. ‘I hope we have not frightened you!’

  Freja flinched at the memory of Herr Basil’s hands shoving the woman from the turret, but reminded herself that nothing was as it had first appeared. She gave a wobbly smile and sat up.

  ‘So this was today’s research, Tobby?’ asked Freja.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Tobias nodded. ‘And it has been extremely helpful. Count Ferdinand the Third, played by our dear friend Herr Basil, has now pushed his plump and elderly housekeeper, played by the intrepid Madame Belmont, out of the turret window four times. Each time I noticed something new — even down to the finest of details, thanks to your binoculars.’ Tobias now hung the little binoculars around Freja’s neck and gave her a thank-you pat on the back. ‘Did you know,’ he continued, ‘that the hairs of Herr Basil’s hands actually twitch when he pushes Madame Belmont out the window? And just before Madame Belmont leaves the turret, a crumble of plaster falls from the windowsill — like a little warning of what’s to come. And Madame Belmont’s smock not only flaps as she falls, but it makes an exciting little snap as the fabric catches on the air — like a kite when the breeze suddenly changes direction. It’s all incredibly fascinating and marvellously helpful for one’s writing.’ He stopped. ‘The only thing I could not quite imagine was the thud of the body hitting the flagstones, but thanks to you fainting, old chap, I now have some small idea of how that might go.’ Tobias stuffed his notebook into his pocket and tucked his pencil behind his ear.

  Freja smiled, despite a dull throb at the back of her head. ‘You’re looking very old-fashioned in your apron and brown smock, Madame Belmont,’ she said. ‘Not at all stylish or French.’

  Madame Belmont stood up and turned a slow circle. ‘And I am also looking
very fat. I have three pillows from my bed stuffed up inside my garments.’ She patted her soft, pillowy belly and laughed. ‘I quite like being large and soft.’

  Something poked at the back of Freja’s head. She pressed her hand to the spot and frowned.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Tobias. ‘I think we might take you upstairs for a warm bath and a nice long nap.’

  Helping Freja to her feet, he thanked Herr Basil and Madame Belmont once more and promised to include their names in the acknowledgements at the back of his novel. The banker laughed, slapped Tobias on the back and wandered off to eat schnitzels with Vipp, Vopp and Vupp. Madame Belmont gave her hand to Tobias to kiss, then tripped lightly on her feet, across the terrace to the bar where she ran into the door frame.

  ‘Oh dear!’ she cried, turning around and waving at Freja and Tobias. ‘I am not used to being so very wide with all these pillows stuffed around my little body.’ She took a step to the left, entered the bar and disappeared from sight.

  Freja gasped. The back of her head was now throbbing.

  ‘Poor Freja,’ said Tobias. ‘Terraces are dreadfully hard. Which makes them marvellous for walking on, but not so great for flinging your head against!’

  Freja nodded. But even as she rubbed her head and winced, she wondered if perhaps it wasn’t the bump that was throbbing, but something else.

  Something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  Something that wanted to be noticed.

  Something that needed to be noticed.

  CHAPTER 31

  Bubbles and ducks and pillows and pokes

  Freja scooped up a handful of bubbles and sat them on top of her head. ‘This is lovely, isn’t it? Warm water, fluffy bubbles and a view of Lake Lucerne from the window.’

  Finnegan squeaked from the opposite end of the bath.

  Freja frowned. She fished around among the bubbles, gathering rubber ducks and lining them up along the side of the bathtub. ‘Mother duck . . . father duck . . . one duckling . . . two ducklings . . .’ She fished around some more, but could find nothing other than the now-empty bubble-bath bottle.

  Freja stared at the dog, his fur wet and bedraggled. One ear drooped down the side of his head, the other stuck up. His mouth was clamped shut, and his brown eyes stared defiantly.

  ‘Puppy,’ said Freja, her voice low and stern.

  Finnegan squeaked.

  ‘You ratbag!’ the girl scolded, but her blue eyes sparkled. ‘Give me the duckling.’

  The dog squeaked once more.

  ‘It’s a rubber duckling, you silly sausage,’ Freja continued. ‘It’s for playing with, not eating. In fact, it’s sure to give you a tummy ache if you —’

  But it was too late. The rubber duckling squeaked again and again as the dog chomped and chewed and, finally, swallowed. Freja gasped.

  ‘Boof!’ Finnegan lunged at the mother duck.

  Freja swiped the remaining rubber ducks to the bathroom floor, clamped her arms around Finnegan’s giant body and shouted, ‘No, puppy! No! They’re a gift from Manfred to me. They are not your dinner!’

  The girl and the dog wrestled and barked and yelled and giggled and splashed until there were more bubbles on the mirror, the windows and the floor than in the bath.

  ‘Everything okay in there, old chap?’ Tobias called from the sitting room.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Freja.

  ‘Boof!’ Finnegan leapt out of the bath, shook himself dry, grabbed the mother duck in his mouth and galloped from the room.

  Freja climbed from the bath, giggling. She dried, dressed in her pyjamas and flopped onto her bed.

  ‘Aaaah,’ she sighed. ‘Lovely squishy pillows.’

  Something poked at the back of her mind.

  ‘Pillows,’ she whispered and waited.

  Yes! There it was again. A definite poke.

  There was something about pillows that was trying to slip forward to the front of her mind.

  ‘Pillows . . . pillows . . .’ murmured Freja. ‘Today Madame Belmont stuffed pillows down her clothes to become a plump peasant woman. And she really did look the part . . . until she bounced back up into the air . . . and ripped off her wig . . . and ran into the door on her way into the bar.’

  Freja frowned and chewed at her lip. She was talking out loud again, just like Tobias, but it did help to organise her thoughts, so she continued. ‘Vivi said that the old Swiss woman — the one who bought all the Margrit Milk fob watches — bumped into the table and the door, as though she didn’t realise how fat she’d become.’ She wriggled her toes and stared up at the canopy over the bed. ‘What if . . . hmmm . . . what if she, too, was not really so fat but had just stuffed pillows down her clothes?’ Freja rolled her eyes. ‘That’s just silly. Why would an old Swiss woman want to make herself look fat?’

  The prodding at the back of her mind grew harder. More insistent.

  ‘Pillows . . . fat . . .’ Freja’s mind was buzzing, flitting all over the place and, suddenly, she was thinking about the nurse she’d run into in the clinic corridor yesterday. Blinded by tears, Freja had thought she’d collided with a fat man, but it was just a nurse carrying pillows in front of her body.

  ‘Pillow plump,’ muttered Freja, which, oddly, made her think of the Frenchman at Herr Berna’s chocolate factory on Tuesday.

  ‘Monsieur de la Fontaine!’ she cried. ‘He was little but plump around the middle — soft and puffy like a pillow!’ Freja sat up. ‘I thought he’d eaten too much chocolate, but perhaps . . . Noooo . . . Yes! Perhaps he really was rather slim, but had stuffed a pillow down his pants to make himself look plump.’ She pictured his black beret and large black moustache. Such a funny moustache! Her eyes widened. ‘Or . . . to make herself look plump!’

  Freja jumped off the bed and shouted, ‘That’s it!’

  Running into the sitting room, she yelled, ‘Tobby! Tobby! Tobby!’

  But Tobias was lost in the world of his novel. He’d tipped an entire jar of strawberry jam out onto his desk and was spreading it about with the end of his pencil. He chuckled and muttered about blood and brains and guts and gizzards and human strawberry jam. He sucked the pencil clean, tucked it behind his ear and started clacking away at the keys of his typewriter.

  Finnegan planted his front paws on the desk and slurped at the jam. Jam was his favourite food — together with biscuits, sausages, schnitzels and, most recently, rubber ducks. The dog licked and dribbled and grinned. The writer muttered and chuckled and typed.

  Freja opened her mouth to talk again, but decided it was futile. It would be hours before Tobias was ready to return to the real world. Besides, she could just as easily go snooping without him.

  Freja shrugged, crept across the room and opened the door. Finnegan was at her side in a flash. A blob of strawberry jam plugged his left nostril.

  ‘Okay, puppy, but you’re not to eat anything. Two rubber ducks and a jar of jam are enough for one evening.’

  ‘Boof!’ said the dog, and he licked the jam from his nostril, which might have meant, ‘Okay!’ but might also have meant, ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’m just warming up.’

  The girl and the dog slipped into the corridor. Checking that no-one else was nearby, Freja pressed against the panel in the wall and she and Finnegan disappeared once more into the secret passage.

  At the bottom of the spiral staircase, Freja stopped and took a deep breath. ‘We are on the cusp of an important discovery,’ she whispered.

  ‘Boof!’ said Finnegan, and he nudged her in the back.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ Freja pushed open the door, just a crack, and peered into the cloakroom. ‘All clear,’ she whispered and stepped inside. The dog followed.

  The first thing Freja noticed was the carton of chocolate from Berna Schokolade. It was full of the chocolate that belonged to Monsieur de la Fontaine, even though Manfred was sure there was no such person staying at the hotel.

  Freja tapped her toe against the carton and tugged at her ear. ‘Because there is
no such person as Monsieur de la Fontaine,’ she whispered. ‘The person pretending to be the Frenchman ordered the chocolate, even though it was not Margrit Milk, so that he — or she — would not look suspicious. And now it has stayed here, untouched, unwanted, because it is not Margrit Milk.’ Freja wrinkled her nose. ‘But why? Why is Margrit Milk so very special? Why don’t all the other types of chocolate matter?’

  Freja closed the secret door which became a shelf full of hatboxes once more. She stared at them, wrinkling her nose, chewing her lip. A hatbox would be the perfect place for hiding a disguise. But there were at least twenty boxes. It would take her ages to go through them all. She had to be clever about it.

  Stepping back, she ran her eyes across each of the shelves, working from top to bottom. ‘Aha!’ she cried, spotting one box that was a little closer to the edge of the shelf than all the others. Its lid was crooked, propped up at one side. Manfred would never allow such messiness in his perfect hotel. Not even in the cloakroom.

  Pulling the hatbox out, Freja lifted the lid and smiled. One by one, she removed a black beret, a false moustache, a flaming red wig and a little black hat with a veil.

  ‘Two disguises in one box! Jackpot!’ Freja pressed the false moustache onto her upper lip and giggled. ‘So Monsieur de la Fontaine and the red-haired lady who doesn’t like chocolate but wants to buy a chocolate gâteau are one and the same person!’

  Freja pulled on the wig and ran her fingers through the bright red locks. Over and over again. Thinking. Remembering.

  ‘The mole!’ she cried. ‘It was on the wrong side! The first time, the woman’s mole was to the left of her mouth. The second time it was to the right. Because it was false!’ She giggled at the idea and wondered if the person wearing the disguise had racked their brain trying to remember where the original mole had been drawn.

  Finnegan growled behind her.

  Freja’s heart thudded and her palms instantly started to sweat. Was someone approaching the cloakroom? Would she be found, in her pyjamas, rummaging through private property? Or even worse, was the person who owned these disguises coming to use them once more? What would they do if they knew that Freja had discovered their secret? They had robbed and mugged already. Would they be willing to hurt a small girl for getting in the way?