Freja stared at Tobias. ‘I thought it was real,’ she whispered. ‘The poisoning and all.’
‘Goodness, no!’ cried Tobias. ‘Why, those sorts of things happen between the pages of my books, but not in lovely places like Lucerne!’
‘But they do!’ cried Freja. And once they were seated at their table, she told Tobias all about her visit with Clementine and the new patient who was bandaged from head to toe and the horrible thing that had happened on top of Mount Pilatus.
‘Why, that’s jolly awful,’ murmured Tobias. ‘It must have been quite a shock. Are you all right, old chap?’
Freja wrinkled her nose. She leaned into Finnegan who was sitting in the chair beside hers and twiddled a piece of his fur between her fingers. Was she all right? It had been a strange and sometimes scary afternoon — the shock of seeing the mummified patient, the horror of Lady P’s story, the bustle of the police and nurses and doctors when the truth came out. But what stuck most in Freja’s thoughts was not the violence or the injuries, but the sorrow in Lady P’s voice when she realised that she would never know what special gift Lord P had left for her.
‘Not knowing is the worst thing of all,’ whispered Freja. And her thoughts slipped from a safety deposit box in a Swiss bank to a battered little treasure chest on top of a wardrobe.
‘Tobby,’ she whispered, ‘do you think it might be time to share some secrets?’
But at that very moment, Vivi floated into the restaurant in a cloud of blue chiffon and vanilla perfume, and all that Tobias could think of was raspberry-gelato lips.
CHAPTER 11
An almost romantic dinner
Vivi sat down at their table, the pale blue chiffon of her dress fluttering about her like a summer breeze. A single edelweiss was tucked behind her left ear — a pure white snowflake amidst a sea of dark chocolate hair.
‘Vivi!’ cried Freja, waving at all the edelweiss in her own hair. ‘We match.’
‘Si! Si!’ sang Vivi, switching to Italian in her excitement. ‘We are like twins. The waiters will hardly be able to tell us apart.’
‘Of course they’ll tell you apart!’ cried Tobias. ‘Just look at Freja — her green dress with the yellow flowers, her haystack hair thick with edelweiss. Why, she looks like the Swiss Alps in spring. I can almost see the chalets and the happy cows. Whereas you, Vivi . . .’ He rested his elbow on a bread roll, his chin in his hand. His mouth stretched into a floppy grin. ‘That dress is like a wispy wind across the blue summer sky. And your eyes are like —’
‘Chocolate ganache?’ asked Vivi.
Tobias grinned and sighed. ‘Absolutely!’
A waiter, dressed in a black dinner suit, stepped up to their table. ‘Willkommen to our fine restaurant!’ he sang. ‘What will you be wanting for your dinner this evening?’
‘Boof!’ Finnegan snatched the white linen cloth that was draped over the waiter’s arm. He shook it from side to side, growling and flashing his fangs.
The waiter’s eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead.
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Freja, blushing. ‘He’s hungry. He’s always naughty when he’s hungry.’
‘And when he’s full,’ explained Tobias.
‘And when he’s happy or sad,’ said Vivi.
The waiter nodded. ‘I have a German shepherd who is just the same,’ he said. ‘A plate of sausages might help, ja?’
‘Boof!’ said Finnegan, dropping the waiter’s cloth. He wagged his tail, grinned and dribbled on the table.
‘Danke,’ whispered Freja, draping the now-tattered cloth back over the waiter’s arm.
‘And for the humans?’ asked the waiter.
Tobias tugged at his ear and stared at the ceiling. ‘How about something really Swiss?’
The waiter looked over his shoulder, then leaned in close. ‘The chef is a delicate genius from Zurich who has just spent a year working in Paris and he is cooking all sorts of strange and exotic foods in his kitchen. But if I were you, I would be requesting Raclette.’
‘Raclette?’ asked Tobias.
‘Ja,’ whispered the waiter, as though sharing a state secret with a spy. ‘It is Swiss and delicious. A wheel of semi-hard cow’s milk cheese is cut in half and melted by the fire until it is just gooey and runny enough to be scraped onto a pile of boiled potatoes, then served with pickles and cold ham. It is simple, honest food. You scoop it up with your fork, pop it into your mouth, eat, close your eyes, rub your tummy, sigh and say, “Das war lecker!”’
Freja smiled. ‘Das war lecker?’
The waiter nodded seriously. ‘That was delicious.’
‘Sounds like just the thing!’ said Tobias. ‘Raclette for three, please.’
The waiter nodded, clicked his heels and dashed off to place the order.
‘I like the Swiss,’ said Freja. ‘They’re serious and funny, official and friendly, all at the same time.’
‘And they have chocolate and cheese,’ said Vivi.
At that moment, another waiter placed a crepe in front of a nearby customer. He lit a match, waved it above the crepe and — WHOOSH — it burst into flame. Blue tongues of fire leapt upward, danced, surged, then disappeared into thin air.
‘Marvellous!’ cried Tobias. ‘A little more brandy and that could do some real damage. Singe the hairs from your nostrils. Take off your eyebrows. Set fire to the entire tablecloth. What an inspiring day this has been!’
‘For me too,’ said Vivi. ‘I have walked around Lucerne — the old town, the river, the lake — looking for ideas for my chocolate creations. Tomorrow, François-Louis will give me my first lesson in chocolate sculpture. He says nothing is too big, too delicate or too crazy to make from chocolate. But first I must start with something small and simple.’
‘What will it be?’ asked Freja. ‘Oh, I just know you will do something beautiful, Vivi.’
Vivi opened her handbag and drew out her treasures, placing them side by side on the white linen tablecloth. ‘A pebble from the edge of the lake, worn smooth and round. A feather from a white swan. It would look lovely, delicate, if made from chocolate, don’t you think? A miniature cowbell.’ She pulled the flower from her hair and sat it on the table. ‘An edelweiss.’ Then, smiling, she pulled the pencil from behind Tobias’ ear and placed it alongside the other treasures. ‘And a pencil from the ear of a famous crime writer who is living in Lucerne right now!’
Freja clapped her hands. ‘Brilliant! And the pencil should be made from Margrit Milk because that is where Tobias’ last pencil ended up — in the vat of Margrit Milk! That’s where you got the idea, isn’t it, Vivi?’
Vivi’s eyes grew wide. Her cheeks blushed to the colour of burnt toffee. ‘No,’ she confessed. ‘The idea comes from deep inside my heart.’
Tobias stared at Vivi, so hard and for so long that Finnegan grew uneasy. He whimpered and nipped Tobias on the elbow. Twice.
But the writer didn’t notice. ‘I say,’ he murmured, then grabbed Vivi’s hand in his.
Freja watched, silent, unblinking. Something important was about to happen. She could see it, feel it.
‘Vivi,’ said Tobias, his voice soft and deep. ‘My heart is filled with macarons and croissants and liquorice-thick lashes and chocolate-ganache eyes and raspberry-gelato lips — everything that is a part of you. My heart is full.’ He scrunched his spare hand into a fist and pounded his chest. ‘What I mean is, my heart is full of you . . . No! Not full of you . . .’ He blushed, let go of Vivi’s hand and tugged at both his ears at once.
Vivi nodded encouragingly.
Tobias stood up. ‘My heart is full of my love,’ he said, as though testing the words for accuracy. ‘Yes!’ he shouted, so loudly that the pianist stopped playing and the restaurant fell silent.
All eyes turned towards the writer and the pretty chef.
‘Yes, indeed!’ said Tobias, now continuing with more confidence. ‘My heart is full of my love for you, Vivi. And I think it is high time . . . No, I am not thinking. I am mo
st definitely asking . . .’
He leaned forward and cupped Vivi’s pretty round cheeks in the palms of his ink-stained hands.
Freja held her breath.
Finnegan licked his nose.
Their fellow diners stared.
The waiters crept closer.
Even the pianist abandoned his instrument and hid behind a nearby palm so that he might better watch the scene unfold.
Vivi fluttered her liquorice-thick lashes.
And, finally, Tobias spoke. ‘Vivi,’ he said, his voice deep and strong. ‘Would you like to marry — Rolf!’
Leaping backward, Tobias threw both his hands into the air.
‘No!’ cried Vivi, her eyes wide and filling with tears. ‘I do not want to marry Rolf. I do not even know this Rolf.’
‘Rolf!’ cried Tobias, turning and addressing his fellow diners. ‘Oh dear! We locked Rolf in the coal box down in the cellar three hours ago and we haven’t let him out!’
And with that, Tobias ran from the restaurant, a trail of guests behind him, gasping, giggling and tittering with the excitement of witnessing the great crime writer at work once more.
CHAPTER 12
Chocolate logs and crazy thieves
Early the next morning, Freja wandered through the forest behind Hotel Schloss der Freude collecting treasures — leaves and twigs, moss and acorns, ferns and fungi, rocks and dirt. The dog ran back and forth, sniffing at tree trunks, licking dew off the grass and digging in piles of leaf litter. Every now and then he dashed back to Freja, slurped his tongue across her cheek, then galloped off again.
Tobias rambled about with a small book titled European Mushrooms. Every now and then, he shouted, ‘Aha!’ and dropped to his knees where he poked about amongst the roots of the trees, chuckling and muttering to himself.
Her satchel and basket finally full, Freja sat on a log beside Tobias. ‘They look good,’ she said, pointing to the mushrooms he was sniffing.
‘Yes, they do, don’t they?’ he replied. ‘Good enough to eat. But the thing is, old chap, if you were to nibble just one of these beauties, you’d be as sick as a dog.’
Freja grimaced. ‘That’s dreadful!’
‘But useful to know,’ said Tobias. ‘For your own safety and for the writing of my novel.’
‘Boof!’ Finnegan bounded into the clearing, ran three circles around the girl, the writer and the mushrooms, and dashed off into the trees once more.
‘I think he wants us to chase him,’ said Freja.
‘I love a good game of chasies!’ shouted Tobias, springing to his feet. ‘Works up an appetite for breakfast!’
The girl and the writer ran after the dog, ducking beneath low-hanging branches, leaping over a rivulet, scrambling up a steep bank and dodging between saplings, until Finnegan stopped.
‘Huh?’ Freja stared, barely able to believe her eyes.
‘Boof!’ said Finnegan, shuffling his back paws, scattering twigs and dirt.
‘I say!’ Tobias rubbed his chin and chuckled. ‘Is that . . . ?’
Freja squatted down, sniffed, poked, licked and nodded. ‘A chocolate-covered log.’
Tobias tugged at his ear, scanned the clearing, then pointed at a nearby pile of charcoal and ashes. ‘Hmmm. The remains of a fire. That’s where the chocolate has been melted, I suppose. And this —’ he pointed to the log ‘— is where it has been poured.’
‘Maybe they spilt it,’ suggested Freja. ‘Tripped and dropped the pot by mistake.’ But even as the words came out, she knew it wasn’t true. The chocolate had been spread, thinly and evenly, all over the large log.
‘Perhaps it’s a Swiss thing,’ said Tobias. ‘Chocolate-coated nature. If we wander far enough we might find some chocolate-coated mushrooms, a chocolate-coated boulder, a chocolate-coated marmot!’
Freja giggled
‘Or maybe someone’s trying to lure bears,’ said Tobias. ‘Bears love chocolate.’
‘I thought they loved honey,’ said Freja.
‘Only when they can’t get chocolate.’
‘Boof!’ Finnegan dived into a pile of leaf litter. He rustled and dug, emerging moments later with a piece of cardboard in his mouth. He shook it from side to side until sure it was dead, then dropped it at the girl’s feet.
‘There’s writing on the side,’ said Freja. She brushed off the dirt and her eyes grew wide. ‘Tobby! What a strange coincidence. It says, “Berna Schokolade — Margrit Milk.”’
‘Hellooo! Hellooo!’ cried Lady P, waving so enthusiastically that her plastered leg swung back and forth from its pulley. ‘Come in, dear Freja and sweet Finnegan. Clementine is downstairs with the doctor, but she’ll return shortly.’ She reached out and squeezed Freja’s hand and ruffled the shaggy grey fur on top of Finnegan’s head. Then, catching sight of Tobias, she asked, ‘And who is this dashing young man?’
Freja looked at Tobias and giggled. He wore saggy-baggy brown trousers, scuffed boots, a tattered khaki shirt from which two buttons were missing, and an oversized cardigan which was worn through at the elbows. Nib pens, pencils, scrunched-up bits of paper and a half-eaten bread roll from breakfast poked out from the tops of the cardigan’s bulging pockets. Freja loved the writer dearly, but she would never call him dashing. Dishevelled, perhaps. Scruffy. Ink-stained. In need of a haircut. Muddle-headed. The kindest soul she had ever met. But never dashing.
Tobias stepped up to the bed. ‘Tobias Appleby at your service.’
‘Tobias Appleby?’ gasped Lady P. ‘Tobias Appleby, the famous crime writer?’
Freja nodded.
‘But Freja!’ cried Lady P, waving her bandaged hand in the air. ‘You do keep wonderful company — Clementine Peachtree the zoologist and Tobias Appleby the crime writer! No wonder you are such a remarkable girl. All that genius has obviously rubbed off on you!’
Freja blushed.
Finnegan leapt up so that his front paws rested on the bed beside Lady P. Gently, he placed his beloved stick at her side.
‘Wonderful!’ cooed Lady P, and she rubbed him behind the ear. ‘You remembered! But what about Clementine? Perhaps it’s her turn for the stick today.’
‘I have something here for Clementine,’ said Freja, patting her satchel. ‘Something special that she can touch and feel and smell. May I use the windowsill?’
‘But of course,’ said Lady P.
While Freja busied herself on the far side of the room, Lady P and Tobias talked about crime — his imaginary ones, her real life one.
‘I do like kidnappings,’ said Lady P. ‘All those ransom notes and ridiculous demands. Lord Pembleton’s peacock was kidnapped once . . . Or was it peacock-napped?’
‘Pea-napped,’ said Freja from the window.
‘But of course!’ cried Lady P. ‘We had a pea-napping and Lord P had to pay ten pounds for its return.’ She laughed. ‘That’s almost a tongue twister!’
‘That’s a humble ransom,’ said Tobias.
‘Yes,’ said Lady P. ‘But the thief was the gardener’s six-year-old son, so I suppose ten pounds seemed like a fortune to him.’
Tobias chuckled. ‘I’m rather fond of a good poisoning myself. All that gasping and groaning, thrashing and moaning. I try to put at least one poisoning in every novel, sometimes two! I’m currently looking into the potential of mushrooms. They can be terrifically toxic!’
‘What about cliff scenes?’ asked Lady P.
‘Oh, I love them!’ cried Tobias. ‘My book European Death Knot is set in the Swiss Alps. The villain takes great pleasure in pushing —’ He stopped. ‘Good grief, Lady P! I almost forgot. Your own case is rather similar. I’m so very sorry. Here I am, bumbling thoughtlessly along.’
Lady P waved her bandaged hand in the air. ‘It’s a comfort to know that I’m not the first person to be pushed over a cliff,’ she said. ‘It keeps me from feeling too special . . . or too sorry for myself.’
‘You do seem in remarkable spirits, considering,’ said Tobias. ‘I think, Lady P, you might have
the makings of a lead character in one of my novels.’
‘Really?’ Lady P fluttered her eyelashes and patted the bandages on her head where her hair would normally sit. ‘Could you pop me into one of your stories? I would be most grateful.’
‘Absolutely!’ cried Tobias. ‘But how do you think your story might end?’
Lady P sighed. ‘Who knows? I’m not even sure there will be an ending. The police here seem rather slow about things. You see, there has been a robbery overnight and that seems to have flustered everyone enormously. Lucerne is usually a peaceful little city and now, all of a sudden, the police have a cliff-pushing, a heist on the contents of a safety deposit box and a chocolate theft to deal with all at once.’
‘A chocolate theft?’ echoed Freja.
Lady P laughed. ‘I know! It seems quite ridiculous, doesn’t it? But the police seem far more concerned about a chunk of missing chocolate than about my poor bones or my treacherous secretary escaping with Lord P’s precious gift. Then again, I am just a posh old Englishwoman and chocolate is the Swiss nation’s greatest invention ever.’
‘Chocolate is important,’ said Freja over her shoulder. She positioned the last stone and stepped back. ‘Ta da!’
‘Brilliant!’ cried Tobias.
‘Marvellous!’ sang Lady P.
‘Perfect!’ sighed Clementine.
Freja spun around and found herself staring into Clementine’s eyes. Her bandages had been removed to reveal a bald head with a scar running all the way from the left eyebrow around to the back of the ear. But it didn’t matter because Clementine’s eyes, her brilliant blue eyes, were staring at Freja. Dancing. Sparkling. Laughing. Loving.
Clementine could see!
‘It’s a miracle!’ gasped Freja. She grabbed the wheelchair from the doctor and pushed Clementine to the window. ‘Can you see this? Can you, Mummy Darling Heart?’
The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Lucerne (The Girl, the Dog and the Writer, #3) Page 8