by Debi Gliori
Latch came back from the coal shed, his frosty breath forming clouds at the back door. “Come and see this!” he cried. “You’ll never believe what’s happened!” Titus followed the butler outside into the kitchen garden. He followed the line of Latch’s pointing hand, squinting up to where he could see the roof gleaming in the early-morning light. The slates reflected the rosy blush of the sky, and on every ridge, miniature figures danced, giving each other high fives and hooting with delight. Perched on the chimneys, Sab and Ffup watched the caperings of the tincture squaddies like guardian gargoyles, occasionally scanning the horizon to see if there was anyone to witness the structural miracle that they’d managed to pull off.
“The roof!” gasped Titus. “It’s back! What . . . how? Oh, this is amazing! Wait till Mum and Dad . . . OH, YES! We don’t have to leave! WE DON’T HAVE TO LEAVE! LATCH, WE DON’T HAVE TO—”
“Eh? What’s that you said?” A clone tugged at Titus’s shoelaces, cupping a tiny hand to its ear to aid interpretation. “Deaf as a post, I’m afraid. Run that one past me again, m’boy?”
Titus plucked the clone off the ground and dropped a smacking kiss onto its bald head. Here was an impossible thing: a miracle. Where once was no roof, no hope of a roof, no home—a box in Bogginview the bleak prospect ahead of them—now, here was StregaSchloss restored to its former state, its turrets and crenellations sparkling in the sunlight. The impossible made possible, in fact. Titus kissed the bewildered clone again and carried it inside to the kitchen.
Pandora sat at the kitchen table, a tiny limp body in her hands. “He’s dead, Titus,” she sniffed. “He died in my arms. Clutched his wee chest, went blue and fell over. . . .” She burst into tears.
Titus knew that they had to act, now, before the remaining clones met the same fate. “Pan, you have to help me get them into the freezer with Strega-Nonna. Maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a cure for old age one day. Who knows? What seems impossible today might be commonplace in the future. . . .” Seeing his sister’s disbelieving glance, Titus persevered. “I have to try, don’t I? I made them. I can’t just write them off as a failed experiment. They’re like children. My children. D’you think Mum and Dad would have binned us if we’d been a bit faulty?”
“You are a bit faulty, Titus,” sniffed Pandora with a rapid return to her normal sibling lippiness. “Personally, I would’ve taken you back to the hospital you were born in and asked for a refund.”
“That’s a bit academic, isn’t it?” retorted Titus. “Since you’re always saying you’re never going to have children.”
“And you’re always banging on about never growing old,” said Pandora. “Now I can see why. Look at the clones that are like you. They’re bald and wrinkly. Eughhh.”
Squabbling to keep their thoughts away from the task at hand, Titus and Pandora gathered up all the living clones and, wrapping them in tinfoil, transferred them to the freezer. There had been a significant decrease in their numbers. Overnight, the seemingly overwhelming clone population had dwindled to a modest hundred or so little bodies. Closing the lid on Strega-Nonna’s welcome speech to her new freezer mates, Titus and Pandora began the grisly cleanup operation, scouring the house and grounds for little corpses and laying them in a row next to their kin in the rose garden. With the assistance of Tock, they buried the clones under one of Signora Strega-Borgia’s rosebushes and tried to maintain the necessary gravitas as Tock reverently laid Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell’s crocodile-skin handbag to rest beneath a clump of saw-toothed pampas grass.
Inside, Mrs. McLachlan hung Pandora’s and her own wet clothes over the range to dry. As she straightened the sleeve of her soggy blouse and draped it over the towel rail, a wad of sodden envelopes fell to the floor. Above the nanny’s head, the egg wobbled in its jelly pan, and patting it absentmindedly, Mrs. McLachlan bent down to retrieve the wet post, remembering with a shiver where she’d found them, floating in a foul puddle down in the dungeons. She was still rinsing them under the kitchen tap when Titus and Pandora came in from their grave-digging duties.
“Can we phone Mum?” asked Titus, joining the nanny at the sink. “Tell her about the roof? And maybe not tell her much about what else happened.”
“I’ll phone,” said Mrs. McLachlan, handing the dripping envelopes to Titus. “Here, take these and very carefully try to separate them. Then lay them out flat on the hot-plate lids on the range. With any luck, they might just about be legible once they’re dry.”
“How come they’re so wet?” asked Pandora. “Did the postman not put them through the letterbox? Were they outside?”
“They date back to the beginning of December,” said Titus, peering at the blurred postmark on one of the envelopes. “Couldn’t we just chuck them in the bin? No one would ever know. . . . They all look really boring—bills and stuff.”
“There might be something of interest in them,” said Mrs. McLachlan firmly. “Or there might not. They’re wet because your baby sister thinks the downstairs toilet is a sort of postbox with a disappearing handle. . . .”
“Oh, YEUCHH!” Titus regarded the pile in his hand with disgust. “I’ll probably catch bubonic plague from these things.”
“Titus, dear, no one is asking you to eat them,” said Mrs. McLachlan, opening the door to the great hall. “Just sort them out, wash your hands, and look after Damp for a moment. I’m going to make a few phone calls.”
Shutting the door behind her, Mrs. McLachlan headed for the telephone in the great hall. Shivering in the echoing space, she prepared what she was going to say as she dialed a number. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows on the landing, illuminating the pile of plaster and broken beams that entombed the bodies of Vincent Bella-Vista and his girlfriend, Vadette.
On the other end of the telephone, someone picked up, and clearing her throat, Mrs. McLachlan began, “Good morning, Sergeant, Flora McLachlan here at StregaSchloss.” That much was true—but as to the rest—she crossed her fingers tightly. “I’d like to report a break-in. . . .”
Going Home
The Scottish flag on the roof of the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms drooped forlornly, and inside the hotel the staff went about their daily routine in hushed silence. The atmosphere was subdued, as all staff and guests waited to hear how Mortimer fared. After the proprietor’s sudden collapse and subsequent departure to hospital by air ambulance, Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia fell into their bed, stunned by the wickedness of what they had discovered.
“It was her, Luciano. That awful Ffion woman. I knew she was dangerous from the moment we met her.” Signora Strega-Borgia lay wide-eyed and wakeful, oblivious to the rosy dawn breaking outside their bedroom window.
“The paramedic was certain that he’d taken poison,” said Signor Strega-Borgia, aghast at such marital perfidy. “To think that she’s lived and worked beside the poor old beggar, and every day she was spiking his nightcaps with rat poison, just watching and waiting for him to die. . . .” He turned to his wife for reassurance. “You would never do a thing like that, would you, Baci? No matter how much you wanted to be rid of me?”
Signora Strega-Borgia turned to face her husband and wrapped her arms round him. “Oh, I don’t know . . . ,” she said, trying hard not to laugh. “My cooking’s undoubtedly bad enough to kill you ten times over, but not intentionally, you understand.”
“Don’t joke about it.” Signor Strega-Borgia’s voice came out muffled by his wife’s embrace.
“I’m not,” she replied. “Look, I promise you if you ever drive me so mad that I want to get rid of you, I won’t be so devious as to use poison. Okay? I’ll just buy a gun and shoot you instead.”
“That’s fine,” said Signor Strega-Borgia. “Since your aim is as appalling as your cooking, I can safely look forward to a long and happy life.”
The sky was full of light when the telephone rang downstairs in reception and was automatically transferred through to the hotel kitchens, where a number of staff were preparing breakfast fo
r early-rising guests. The short-order chef expertly flipped a trio of fried eggs with his spatula and then hurtled across the kitchen to answer the telephone.
“Aye? Auchenlochtermuchty Arms. Four-star accommodation in the heart of Argyll. How can I help youse?”
The voice on the other end had to shout to be heard over the sound of spluttering eggs and bacon.
“Dunno. Dinnae think he’s up yet. Shall I find out?” The chef punched a couple of buttons on the phone and watched disgustedly as his eggs blackened round the edges. At last there came a reply on the other end of the phone. “Took yer time, didn’t youse?” he bawled. “There’s a phone call in reception. D’youse want it in your room or are youse going to come doon here for it?”
On the other end of the telephone, Signor Strega-Borgia yawned copiously. Thirty minutes’ sleep had left him neither refreshed nor in full possession of his faculties. He looked across the bed to where his wife lay slumbering sweetly beside him. Shame to wake her, really.
“Come oan,” growled the chef. “Ma eggs are ruint. Make up your mind, youse.”
“I’ll come down,” Signor Strega-Borgia decided, replacing the receiver on the chef’s wrath, grabbing a dressing gown, and tiptoeing out the door.
Five minutes later, he was back, wide awake, and hauling his protesting wife out of bed. “Come on, Baci. Get dressed. That was the police on the phone. We have to go to StregaSchloss.”
“But I’m exhausted . . . ,” his wife groaned, hauling herself upright and attempting to bring her eyes into focus. “Luciano, please. . . .”
Signor Strega-Borgia was hurling clothes out of their wardrobe onto the bed. “Hurry up. They’ll be here in five minutes.”
“Not the purple organza, darling, I’ll freeze.”
“Wear a pullover, then. Come on. That’s the police car now.”
Signor Strega-Borgia looked outside and saw a black-and-white car sweeping up the drive to the hotel. Behind him, muttering as she threw on clothes, jumpers, scarves, two pashminas, and a serape for good measure, Signora Strega-Borgia cursed as she dressed for the Scottish winter. Red-eyed from lack of sleep, clumsy and crumpled, the couple ran downstairs to where their escort awaited, the car’s blue flashing light lending an air of drama to the scene.
“If you’ll just step into the rear of the vehicle, sir, madam.” A burly policeman stood holding the rear door open for the Strega-Borgias. They obediently slid into the rear seat, and without a second’s delay, the car shot off along the drive in a shower of disturbed gravel, siren on and blue light still flashing.
Signor Strega-Borgia leaned forward to address the back of the necks of the two policemen in front of him. “Is all this really necessary, Constable?” he said. “All this fuss? Blue lights, sirens, and whatnot?”
“It’s Sergeant MacAllister, sir,” said the left-hand neck, without turning round. “We’ve received a phone call from a Mrs. Flora McLachlan regarding a break-in—”
A crackle from the radio interrupted him. “Delta Umbrella Mango Bravo Oscar, do you read me, over?”
Sergeant MacAllister cleared his throat and replied, “I read you loud and clear, Bravo Oscar Sugar Sugar.”
“How quaintly affectionate . . . ,” observed Signora Strega-Borgia.
“Query present whereabouts, over.”
“Heading for incident near Lochnagargoyle on the B80261, proceeding in a westerly direction, over.”
The driver of the police car, who was not involved in the radio discussion, turned round to face Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia with a wide smile. This did nothing to increase the Strega-Borgias’ confidence in the police, since they were currently bouncing down the track to StregaSchloss at an indecent speed. “Just like television, isn’t it?” he remarked, turning his attention back to the road just in time to avoid hitting a tree. “Builds public confidence, this sort of thing. We can’t just be seen to putter round the Highlands like Police Constable Plod. . . .”
The car swerved round a tight bend, splattering mud and pebbles in all directions. Signora Strega-Borgia lurched against her husband as the car shrieked to a stop at the gate to StregaSchloss.
“That’s them!” yelled Sab, positioned as lookout on the topmost turret. He saw a figure emerge from the car to open the gate a quarter of a mile down the track. In the kitchen, Mrs. McLachlan and the children waited. Latch stood in the great hall, ready to open the door. The beasts clung to their turrets and chimneys, attempting to look as gargoyle-like as possible. In the moat, Tock swam to the edge to greet his beloved mistress.
Stepping onto the rose-quartz drive, Signora Strega-Borgia swathed herself in shawls and looked around. Shading her eyes from the sun, she craned her neck backward to regard the wreckage of the StregaSchloss roof, mentally steeling herself not to burst into tears at its terminal condition. Her shawls fell to the ground, her mouth fell open, and for a few seconds she forgot to breathe. Above her, the roof shone in the morning light.
“The roof! The roof! The house! Oh, I don’t believe it! Yes, I do! OH, MY HEAVENS! IT’S LIKE MAGIC. . . .” She turned round, face alight, and dragged her husband out of the police car.
Signor Strega-Borgia, still half-asleep, squinted up at the apparent miracle of restoration. He blinked rapidly, rubbed his eyes, and threw his arms round his wife. “Baci?” His voice came out in a squeak. “Am I awake? Our house? Am I seeing things? If this is a dream, please don’t wake me. . . .” Picking Signora Strega-Borgia up in his arms, he spun her round in circles on the rose quartz, laughing hysterically. “OH, WE’RE HOME! HOME! HOME!”
The front door opened to reveal Latch, pale and drawn. “Welcome home, Signor, Signora. . . . So sorry that you had to return to this . . . ,” he murmured, wringing his hands. “Terrible business . . . poor people—obviously didn’t read the sign outside. . . .”
Utterly confused by this somber greeting, the Strega-Borgias followed the butler inside and beheld the pile of wood and rubble that had formed a partial tomb for Vincent Bella-Vista and his unfortunate girlfriend. Powdered with plaster dust, their faces glowed eerily through the fallen debris.
“Oh, dear,” said Signora Strega-Borgia. “The poor things. . . .” She looked upward, up through the vast hole above the wreckage, the ragged edges of which stretched up through the darkness, all the way to the newly repaired attic. She dragged her gaze downward with a shudder to the two corpses. “But . . . that’s Mr. Belle Atavista . . . and his girlfriend. I wonder what on earth happened to them?”
Skirting the pile of wreckage, the police sergeant stepped into the great hall and, removing his notebook from a pocket, flipped it open. Judging by their performance on the doorstep, he’d already come to the conclusion that Mr. and Mrs. Strega-Borgia were, in all probability, utterly insane, but he had to follow police procedure. . . . With a deep sigh, he began: “Were you acquainted with the deceased? Sir? Madam?”
“Both the sir and the madam,” said Signor Strega-Borgia, averting his eyes with a shudder from the gaze of the builder sprawled under the pile of broken timbers. His eyes met those of Latch, and he realized that the butler was drawing his finger across his lips in a mime of “Keep quiet.” His thoughts in chaos, Signor Strega-Borgia stammered, “He . . . um . . . Mr. Bella-Vista . . . was about to . . . was about to . . . yes, he was about, round and about in the . . . um . . . hotel.” He risked a glance at Latch, to see if this blundering improvisation had met with the butler’s approval.
Unaware of the signals passing between Signor Strega-Borgia and Latch, the policeman carried on. “And when was the last time you saw either of the deceased alive?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Signor Strega-Borgia. “He drove us back to the hotel after we’d been to Bog—after we’d been . . . um . . . out to see his . . . DOG! Yes, that’s right, his dog. . . .”
Signora Strega-Borgia interrupted her husband. “Sergeant, none of this explains why we were told that our house had been destroyed. Two of your constables, in fact, told us that
this house was in such a parlous condition that we’d be risking life and limb to return.”
The sergeant harrumphed, licked his pencil nervously, and avoided Signora Strega-Borgia’s eyes.
Twitching a shawl impatiently round her shoulders, she continued, “Yet, Sergeant, here we are, in the property, apparently in no danger whatsoever, apart from the odd falling builder, and outside are notices—police notices—to the effect that StregaSchloss is extremely dangerous.”
“There appears to have been some confusion about this matter, madam.” The policeman was now looking distinctly nervous. “Officers Macbeth and McDuff will be suspended from duty pending a full inquiry.”
“You admit that there has been a mistake?” said Signor Strega-Borgia, stepping forward.
“Um. Yes. No. I mean, I’m afraid I’m not able to comment on that.” The policeman was clearly floundering now, shuffling his feet and casting despairing glances in the direction of the front door.
“But, look here, Sergeant, you simply can’t go round misinforming innocent members of the public about the structural safety of their houses.” Encouraged by Latch’s wide grin, Signor Strega-Borgia was warming to his theme. “Dragging them out of their beds, forcing them to view dead bodies draped across their hallways. . . . I mean, it’s hardly our fault if these two were unwise enough to fall through our attic, is it?”
He gripped his wife’s arm and began to steer her in the direction of the kitchen. “Come on, Baci. I’m so sorry I hauled you out of bed on a fool’s errand. Let’s go and have some coffee and leave the police to deal with this mess, shall we?”