Grimm

by Mike Nicholson

  Given all that he had seen, Rory wished he could just abseil down the hotel walls in a bid for freedom, but with escape not an option he took a last deep breath of fresh air and ducked back inside and downstairs. Still with the view of the ledge in his mind, Rory remembered his encounter with Ramsay earlier on.

  “Would it be possible to see the kitchens?” he asked Grog. Grumbling, the little man turned on his heel and the gloomy tour resumed. After a few twists and turns Rory was surprised to find a bright light shining through a small window in a door ahead. In contrast to everything seen so far at Hotel Grimm, whatever was beyond this door was gleaming. Not only that, but Rory breathed deeply as he realized that an aroma of fried onions and garlic had cut through the smell of damp which had followed them thus far.

  Grog opened the door without a hint of creaking hinge. The shine off the smooth surfaces, the bright lights overhead, and the gleaming white and brushed steel of appliances gave the impression that they had just entered a spaceship. The contrast was so great that Rory glanced back, double checking that this room and the twilight world, which the rest of the hotel occupied, really belonged to the same building.

  Grog coughed more loudly than usual by way of introduction and a head appeared above some shiny plastic containers on the far side of a central worktop. Ramsay Sandilands’ face broke into a thin grin and he waved a hand grandly in welcome.

  “Ah you have made it here, my dear boy. Welcome to my world!”

  Ramsay looked remarkably different from Rory’s earlier encounter with him. He now sported a chef’s hat, a white top and, as he moved from behind the worktop, he revealed a pair of pressed black and white-checked trousers. There was no sign of the voluminous hairy coat or matching hat he had been wearing earlier on. Rory’s eyes flickered over Ramsay. There was no hint of a twitching pink nose or flickering whisker.

  The bewilderment on Rory’s face must have been plain to see.

  “Surprised again, Rory McKenna?” said the chef, observing his reaction.

  “This is just so … different from everything else I’ve seen so far,” he replied.

  “We have standards to keep up here,” said Ramsay with an air of self-satisfaction.

  “It’s amazing,” said Rory, “but surely it’s hardly being used at the moment?”

  “Ah, but what’s important,” said Ramsay, “is that it’s primed and ready to go. As soon as the hotel is back on the map for the right reasons, this kitchen will spring into action.”

  Rory gave a sceptical look, prompting Ramsay to continue. “I know that day will come. Mark my words. It’s just a matter of time.” He gave one of his curious rat-like grins and Rory wondered why the man seemed utterly convinced that times were going to change.

  A throat-clearing rasp from Grog interrupted them.

  “Excuse me!” said Ramsay appalled at the sound and waving them out of his kitchen. Rory stifled a smile as he followed Grog into darkness once more and on to whatever the hotel would offer next.

  As with the kitchen, the smell of the next room hit him before the door was opened. This time it was decades of dust created by slowly decaying books that assaulted his nose. Sure enough, stepping through the door he found that the walls of the circular room were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Rails at the top and bottom of the bookshelves allowed a ladder to be pushed around the walls in order to access the highest books.

  “Great library,” said Rory thinking how much a book lover like Bonnie O’Donnell would enjoy browsing through the contents of this room. Then, remembering Bella Valentine’s description of supernatural forces shifting books around, Rory blurted out, “Is this where the poltergeist lives?”

  Grog’s answer was no more than a strangled noise and a mutter that sounded like “that wretched woman” as he shuffled over to one of two tiny wood-panelled doors which broke the line of the bookshelves. “Right,” he said gruffly, twisting the handle. “That’s enough. Time to end this.”

  Rory gulped, imagining Grog bundling him into a cupboard never to be found again. But the butler ducked, went through the door and disappeared from view. Rory hesitated but convinced himself that Grog was taking him to the closing stages of the tour. Taking a deep breath, he entered the tiny staircase. Sure enough, after struggling down a couple of flights of stairs, they emerged from another small door into the hallway where Rory had entered the hotel.

  “Good shortcut,” said Rory. “And … um … thanks for the tour … I guess I’ll head off now…and think a bit about it all. There are obviously a few … er … issues to address, so, it’s going to be quite a challenge.”

  Grog looked blankly at him and began to open the front door. Rory realized that this was his last chance to try to get any information.

  “Can I ask … why’s the hotel in the state it’s in?” asked Rory.

  Grog paused. In fact he stopped for so long it was as if someone had switched him off in the act of opening the door. Eventually he spoke, his voice sounding a little strained.

  “Since m’lady died.”

  Rory wasn’t sure what to say next, and any other questions he had dried up before he could get them out, leaving him none the wiser about who had died, or when and why this might have made such a big impact.

  Stepping over the threshold, it struck Rory that he had managed what others before him had not. He had come to Hotel Grimm and walked out again in one piece.

  Knock knock

  Who’s there?

  Guest

  Guest who?

  Guest who will be the next person to die at Hotel Grimm …

  Joke

  11. Clues in the graveyard

  As the door thudded shut behind him, Rory was met by a chorus of cawing laughter. Crows circled above him, screeching and cackling.

  Rory stumbled away from the hotel, ducking from the noisy black birds as if under an onslaught of sniping comments from Gordon and Gracie Goodman. He ran past the enormous discarded stone wolf, anxious to put some distance between himself and Hotel Grimm and clear his head. One definite souvenir of the visit was that his left shoe was decidedly sticky from whatever he had stood in just after he had crossed the threshold.

  Rory was in such a daze, and so intent on getting downhill and back home as quickly as he could, that he didn’t notice the path splitting. In less than a minute bushes closed in on him and his backpack snagged on a branch. Startled, Rory looked round. This was not the way that he knew and he realized with a shiver where his wrong turning had taken him. The iron railings and a clutter of headstones showed that he had stumbled across Hotel Grimm’s very own graveyard. Surrounded by rocks and bushes, the little rectangular plot was situated on the only level patch of ground on this part of the hill. Feeling very alone and about to head back the way that he had come in double quick time, Rory paused as something caught his eye inside the small enclosure.

  He edged closer to investigate a splash of colour that seemed so out of place. His skin tingled as he stepped warily past a bramble patch and through a gap in the railings. Bad enough visiting Hotel Grimm but wandering through a graveyard too? thought Rory. I must be mad.

  But as he forced himself to look, he could see that the little graveyard was a less scary prospect than he had first thought. In fact, fresh flowers placed at the foot of one gravestone, provided the colour that had attracted him. The stone seemed to be a relatively recent addition; its new and polished surface very different from the others, which were weather-beaten and moss-covered. The inscription was clear and simple:

  Gwendolen Grimm

  Loving wife and mother.

  Left us too soon. Sorely missed.

  Rory was taken aback. Who was Gwendolen Grimm? Whose wife was she and if she was a mother, then who was her child … or children?

  Rory glanced around, curious now about what else the graveyard might have to offer. There was another relatively new-looking memorial stone close by. There was no inscription other than a list of names and the words “I
n Remembrance.” Rory recognised the list as all of the names from the “Too Many Dead Guests” article that he had seen in The Chronicle archive … with one big difference — an extra name. “Lottie Gilchrist” appeared at the top of the list. Was there another death that The Chronicle didn’t know about? Who was Lottie Gilchrist? Rory’s own list of questions about Hotel Grimm was growing longer the more time he spent there.

  Rory soon found that the other stones were for past members of the Grimm family dating back over many decades. The most ornate stone was reserved for Sir Gregory Grimm, whose death was described as a loss to the style and society of the twentieth century and who, it claimed, was responsible for establishing the hotel and creating a classic building of the era.

  Realizing that some of the facts in front of him might provide important background, Rory scribbled down a few names and dates in his notebook. Then with a last look round he returned to where he had taken his wrong turning.

  About to head downhill, the most amazing smell of home baking spread through the air. As he reached the rock ledge he glanced over at the spot from where he had admired the view earlier on. A small basket covered with a red-checked tea cloth sat in the space. Looking around, but seeing no one, Rory edged closer, and as he drew near noticed that there was a piece of paper pinned to it.

  Trust your meeting went well. Compliments of the chef.

  RS

  Peeking below the cloth, Rory found a selection of still warm scones, pancakes and flapjacks. As a flapjack melted in his mouth, he stopped mid-chew. Just how close had Ramsay Sandilands’ rats been to any baking activities? Rory looked suspiciously at the rest of the cakes in the basket. There was no visible sign that any rodents had been alongside during the baking process.

  However, the thought of Ramsay brought Rory back down to earth with a bump. It was all very well sitting eating cakes and looking at a nice view but that didn’t change anything about the shambolic interior of Hotel Grimm and the fact that he was expected to come up with bright ideas in just a week to make it appealing to people. His inadvertent trip to the graveyard reminded him that some of the hotel’s more recent guests had ended up with their names on a nearby memorial and that this was a rather large obstacle to overcome.

  With a sigh, Rory headed back towards Aberfintry intent on a more productive trip to Boglehole Road in an attempt to tackle the impossible task of Rebranding Hotel Grimm.

  12. Back down to earth

  “It’s been a while Rory. I thought you were ignoring me,” said Grandad as Rory entered the front room.

  “Now why would I do that?” countered Rory. “Anyway I left you a note the other day. It was you that ignored me!”

  “Och, you’re just the same as everyone else. Nobody really cares about an old man,” said Grandad with a pained expression and the hint of a smile.

  “Stick the kettle on son would you?”

  Rory checked and found there was enough water in the kettle near to his Grandad’s armchair and flicked it on, before slumping down in the seat opposite and sighing deeply.

  “That’s a big one,” said Grandad.

  “Was it? I didn’t even realize I’d done it,” said Rory.

  “Something in you wanting to come out?” asked Grandad. Rory said nothing, partly wanting to say what he had really come here to talk about, but also annoyed that his troubled thoughts had been so easily spotted.

  “Well, I’ve a few things on my mind at the moment,” said Rory.

  “Very mysterious. Anything you need to tell your Grandad about?” Rory didn’t reply, allowing the kettle to begin to roar, before putting a steaming mug of tea on the table beside him.

  “Help me up a bit, would you?” said Grandad grimacing. Rory heaved under his shoulder to help him get more comfortable. “Don’t get old, Rory, just don’t get old!” Grandad was always saying it like some sort of joke but seeming to mean it at the same time. Rory never quite knew how to reply.

  He sat back in his chair again, but this time it wasn’t a sigh that came out. “I was up at Hotel Grimm yesterday,” he blurted, surprising himself with the statement.

  “I wondered when you were going to mention that,” said Grandad.

  Rory stopped with his mug halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

  Grandad nodded to the telescope which stood on a stand at the window. “I was plotting your progress.”

  “But, Grandad, you can’t see,” said Rory with a glance at the magnifying glass the old man now used for reading.

  “Kick a wounded animal, why don’t you?” said Grandad.

  “I don’t mean that nastily but … well you can’t, can you?” he said with a nod towards the white stick that his Grandad refused to use.

  “I borrowed someone else’s eyes,” said Grandad, the lines on his face revealing a mischievous grin.

  “Borrowed someone’s eyes? Who helped you? And anyway how did you know to look in the first place?” snapped Rory, rattling off the questions.

  “You seem surprised to find your old Grandad a step or two ahead of you,” said old man giving little away.

  “Someone must have tipped you off that I was going … but I don’t understand; no one knew.” Rory paused casting his mind around people in the town that he had spoken to in the last few days and then remembered. “Did Malky Mackay come to see you?”

  “PC Mackay to you, son. Aye, he did. He said he wasn’t too concerned but he thought it best to keep an eye on things. He came here for a bit and watched you get up to the ledge and then you disappeared out of sight. According to him, you were back about two hours later without the spring in your step that there normally is.”

  At that, it all spilled out as Rory explained everything that had happened from the delivery of the letter right up to his trip to the library and his wrong turning into the graveyard.

  “So that’s it, Grandad,” said Rory at the end of it all. “Rebranding Hotel Grimm. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Aye well, it certainly sounds like an interesting piece of work,” said Grandad.

  “Interesting?” said Rory. “Interesting? Grandad, there are about a thousand better words to describe it … most of them related to doom and disaster.”

  “Well, all you can do, is the best you can do, son,” said Grandad.

  “It’s all very well to say things like that, but what if that isn’t good enough for Hotel Grimm? Look at what happened to other people asked to do jobs there, like Willie Docherty and Scott MacAndrew.”

  “Ach don’t fuss yourself about that pair of jokers. That’s just a bit of typical Chronicle nonsense. Anything for a story. You don’t believe that, do you? Just because Scott MacAndrew can’t pack his van properly he blames Hotel Grimm, and I wouldn’t get Willie Docherty to wire a plug for me. The guy’s about as useful as a chocolate teapot.”

  Rory went quiet. He wanted to believe his Grandad but wasn’t totally convinced at his attempts to play the situation down.

  “Anyway,” said Grandad. “I want to hear all about the place. It’s been so long since I worked up there. I’m keen to hear what it’s like these days.”

  Grandad said it so casually that his comment almost slipped past Rory before he’d spotted it.

  “Worked there?” spluttered Rory, spilling tea down his front as he sat up too quickly.

  “Aye son, I worked there for eighteen months. It was years ago mind,” said Grandad in a matter of fact tone.

  Rory was momentarily stunned. “When? Where? Doing what?” he stammered.

  “I was a young apprentice helping out on some building work there,” said Grandad shifting in his seat and wincing again as he did so.

  “I thought you were a gardener,” said Rory. “You worked in the park all your life, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, I did after that,” said Grandad. “At that time, I wasn’t long out of school and the owner was ploughing money into the place. He was wanting all sorts of bits and pieces up there so he needed a whole team of builders
, joiners and stonemasons. Loads of the lads from school went straight into working up there. The guy had more money than sense really. Statues, gargoyles, stone carvings … complicated pieces of work all over the hotel.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Och, all sorts of stuff. I started off just fetching and carrying, but then I did some stone carving. Did you see the head above the front door? I did some of the work on that.”

  “Oh, thanks for that,” said Rory, remembering the stone face that had greeted him. “That was a lovely welcome, having that thing smirking down at me.”

  “It was a good piece of work, you cheeky wee thing,” said Grandad.

  “You must know about other stuff too then,” said Rory. “That big stone wolf, for example. And what’s the Curse of the Stonemason?”

  “Ach, that Curse business. You don’t want to trouble yourself with that,” said Grandad with a dismissive tone. “That big wolf was made to stand in the hall to greet visitors. What a thought, eh? I should maybe have one here!” he said nodding towards his front door.

  “But how could I not have known that you worked up there, Grandad?” said Rory, unable to believe that one of the sources for his background research on Hotel Grimm was in his own family.

  “Ach well, you know now,” said Grandad taking another glug of tea. “It’s been a long time since I was up there.”

  “What was it like in those days?” asked Rory settling down again after the surprise of Grandad’s revelations.

  “Well a bit different from what it’s like now, I imagine. I think it’s gone downhill a bit by all accounts,” said Grandad.

  “You could say that,” said Rory.

  “In those days it was a right classy place. It was like a palace inside.”

  “Who was the owner then?”