“Come out and face me Shand!” he yelled.
Fallon and another police officer were grunting and straining, trying to heave the chef away from the door. Meanwhile a third officer, his teeth gritted, was wrestling with the chef’s right hand, which was still armed with the tiny fondue fork.
“PUT. THAT. FORK. DOWN!”
The chef shook the men off and tossed the fork to one side. “Ach! He’s not worth it.”
He trudged off in the direction of the kitchen, with two of the officers following close behind.
Fallon knocked firmly on the door. “Mr Shand, it’s DI Fallon here. Open up.”
The office door slowly creaked open and Shand’s drawn and red-eyed face poked out. “Is he gone?”
“Yes. I think we need to talk, sir.”
“I’m not talking to anyone unless you keep that Swiss lunatic away from me!”
“Yes, OK, OK.” Fallon made a patting motion with the palms of his hands. “Stay where you are, I’ll check he’s secure.” I heard a cough from behind me. It was Granny, standing in her full karate outfit, complete with bandana and sandals, looking like a tiny deranged warrior.
“Ah’ll deal with it,” she croaked. Then she bowed and set off after the chef. Fallon watched her swagger down the hall with a look of bewilderment. He nodded to the third officer, who reluctantly joined him as he set off after Granny. There was just one officer left now, keeping guard in front of reception.
Grandad took his chance to slip into the office, while I crossed the lobby, smiling at the lone officer and feigning innocence. I tucked myself behind the stairs, waiting and listening.
A minute or so later Grandad returned, shaking his head. “There is something very funny about this. Shand is in there, crying his eyes out. I heard him say, ‘I do not understand. It wasn’t me.’”
“He’s on his own in there, so he doesn’t know anyone is watching him,” I whispered. “Which means it’s not an act – he really didn’t do it.”
“I noticed something else. There is a contract sitting open on his desk. It is from the Hillingdon Corporation, and it is marked ‘Sale of Brightburgh Manor Hotel’. Looks like he is about to sign it as well. He has a pen out, and he is blubbing… something about not having any choice now.”
“Hmm, what do you know about Hillingdon Hotels?” I asked.
“In my day,” replied Grandad, “it was the world’s biggest hotel corporation. They had hotels all over the world. It was owned by some rich billionaire. Oh, what was his name? Connor, I think it was. Connor Hillingdon. He used to be in all the newspapers with his flashy cars and private jets, although if I remember rightly I think he retired and passed the business over to his daughter.”
My mind whirred. “The question is – why would a big, seemingly respectable corporation like Hillingdon play such dirty tricks? To get the price down? To force Shand into signing the manor over to them? A big company like that, they don’t need the hotel that badly, do they?”
“You are right. I mean, what if they got found out? That would be a big deal, front page news. It does not make good business sense.”
“No,” I said. “Unless…”
Chapter 21
The Karate Granny
“Unless… What?” huffed Grandad. “You keep saying that and then you do not explain! It is very annoying!”
Suddenly, all the jigsaw pieces in my mind floated out of the mist. They hovered tantalisingly close to each other. “You have to stop him signing that contract, Grandad! Now!”
“How am I supposed to do that?” he yelped.
“You’re a ghost! Use your ghostly powers. Like you did with me at the abbey.”
“Uh! This is exhausting!” Grandad rushed off. Meanwhile, I felt for Mum’s smartphone in my back pocket. I still had it, and a good thing too. I plucked it out, then ducked back under cover.
While the phone reception was rubbish, the hotel did have wi-fi, which I swiftly tapped into. Mum never bothers, she just lets her data roaming run out then wonders why she can’t get on the internet!
I searched for ‘Hillingdon Hotels’ and ‘Connor Hillingdon’. It seemed Grandad was right – the billionaire had retired a few years ago and given the running of the family business over to his heiress daughter, Vienna Hillingdon. A few more quick searches and it didn’t take long for everything to become clear. All at once, the jigsaw pieces slotted perfectly into place.
Stuffing the phone back in my pocket, I heard Grandad making loud blowing noises from the office. He sounded like he was trying to extinguish one of those joke relighting birthday cake candles. I could just imagine his face taking on that slightly reddish shade of green, and his spectral eyes popping out of his head, and his spooky veins bulging out of his temples. I heard a thump as the office door suddenly flew open, and then the sound of fluttering. A massive flurry of paper blew out and scattered around the hall. The police officer on guard looked round, confused.
“AAAARGGHH!”
There was ear-splitting scream from the office. The police officer hurried towards it while Grandad came rushing through him, his face beaming. “Did you see that? Ha!”
“Well done, Grandad!”
Shand’s scream brought Fallon storming back into the lobby. It also brought Mrs Hackenbottom, Mum and all the other guests to the door of the dining room. The German men were hooting with laughter at this latest development in their weekend’s entertainment. They seemed to be eagerly placing bets with each other as to who the murderer was. Thankfully, I no longer seemed to be in the running. Mrs Shand also appeared, her scowling face poking out of the door marked ‘PRIVATE’.
Mr Shand himself came tottering out of the office and groaned weakly. “This place… It’s haunted!”
“You bet it is!” hooted Grandad. “By me!” Then he turned to the suit of armour. “Oh, sorry, you too, Sir Bampot.”
I eyed something that looked like a legal document among the papers scattered on the floor. Snatching it up, I waved it around and shouted, “Don’t sign this, Mr Shand!”
All eyes turned to me.
“You don’t have to sell your hotel,” I said. “We – I mean, I, not Mrs Hackenbottom – have solved the mystery.”
Mrs Hackenbottom folded her arms and wrinkled her face at me. “I already solved the case, young man.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Hackenbottom, but you were wrong. Mr Shand isn’t a thief, or a poisoner. And he certainly didn’t kill Chase Whitton.”
“Then who did, dearie?” asked Mum.
“Well,” I rocked back and forth on my feet, my arms clasped behind my back, enjoying the attention, “let’s think this through…”
The attention was short-lived though, as at that moment two bodies came hurtling from the direction of the kitchen, locked in combat. The Swiss chef was battling Granny, using a spiky pineapple as a shield and a cucumber as a kind of makeshift sword. Granny karate chopped the cucumber in half, her eyes gleaming.
“STOP!” I cried.
Granny immediately halted her attack. She relaxed and folded her arms inside her sleeves. She wasn’t even out of breath. The chef was red-faced and panting. “She… She is a demon!” he gasped. “I think I love her.”
“You back off!” cried Grandad. “She is MY girl.”
Shand whimpered at the reappearance of the chef and hid behind the desk, while Fallon and two of his officers formed a barrier between the chef and his employer.
I coughed, regaining everyone’s attention. “As I was saying, who poisoned the food? Could it have been the chef?” I asked.
“I will KEEL you!” The chef growled at Shand, charging forward like a rugby player.
One of the officers yelled at the other. “Do it!” His colleague yanked out a black and yellow gun and aimed it at the chef.
“Taser! Taser! Taser!” he shouted, and pulled the trigger. Something small and metallic shot out and hit the chef square in the chest. There was a loud crackling noise, and the chef jerked, bolt uprig
ht. His face went blank, his eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he started jiggling around on the spot like he was doing a sort of pogo dance. Finally, he toppled over and fell flat on his face.
Granny knelt down, flicked out two fingers, and scraped off some leftover chocolate sauce from the chef’s tunic. She smeared it slowly and deliberately across her cheeks like war paint.
Everyone paused for a moment, watching the chef regain his senses as the policemen cuffed his hands behind his back.
“Orrrrrr,” I said, waiting for the eyes to turn back to me, “could it be… Arek, the porter, slash Parek, the waiter?” The party of German golfers parted slightly, to reveal the waiter behind them.
Arek was eyeing Shand too. “I would like to kill him.”
Mum was standing beside him. She took a step back and gasped.
He held his palms up at her in a show of innocence. “But it was not me, I promise!”
“I told you, you’re fired!” screamed Shand, still crouching behind the desk. “Get out!”
Arek was about to pipe up again, but I cut him off. “Look, do you mind? I’m trying to expose a murderer here, and a double murderer no less.”
“And you are making a blinking awful job of it too,” said Grandad.
“Oh, you shut up as well!” I snapped.
“Eh?” asked Fallon, quizzically. “Who you talking to, laddie?”
“This is your big moment, son,” urged Grandad. “Do not let it go.”
I coughed, straightened my back and then clutched my hands around two imaginary lapels before pacing around the floor, just like the detectives did in Grandad’s ancient TV shows. “I put it to you…” I pointed directly at Mrs Hackenbottom. “Miss Bleedin’ Marple…”
“My name’s Hackenbottom, not Marple!” she cut in.
“Oh, shut up!” Grandad and I cried at the same time.
“I put it to you,” I continued for the big reveal, “that YOU are the murderer of Brightburgh Manor.”
Chapter 22
The Viennese Solution
I let my revelation hang in the air for a moment, pacing up and down, as all eyes turned to the little old lady. But Mrs Hackenbottom was unruffled. Her face betrayed nothing as she calmly clasped her wrinkly hands around the top of her cane.
“I put it to you,” I added, “that you are the one trying to ruin this hotel – so you can buy it.”
“What, on my poor old pension?” she scoffed. “What a joke! Look, the boy has obviously banged his head,” she pointed to my throbbing bump, “it’s obviously addled his brain!”
Grandad leant closer to me. “Are you sure about this, boy?”
Fallon also leant towards me. “Are you sure about this, laddie?”
I ignored them and continued. “Yes, because you are not the frail little old lady you make yourself out to be. Oh no, your name is not Vera Hackenbottom, though the initials are the same. I remember seeing them on your case as we arrived. No, you are none other than the daughter of famous hotel tycoon, Connor Hillingdon. You are the rich heiress, Vienna Hillingdon.”
“What?” she replied, unfazed. “A rich young heiress? Look at me, I’m an old woman.” She fluttered her eyelids at everyone, bearing a striking resemblance to the mischievous gargoyle Grandad and I had found up at the ruins. Just with a few more wrinkles.
“Not all rich heiresses are young,” I countered. “Vienna Hillingdon, judging from a quick search on the internet, is in her fifties. Mind you, she’s not as old as you. Or at least, she’s not as old as you look. I mean, all that hobbling about you do, you poor decrepit old lady. But you weren’t so slow when it came to running up the stairs after the porter yesterday, or catching that knife that fell off the table this morning, were you? Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“Huh!” She turned to Mum. “I saved the boy’s knife from falling on the ground, and this is the thanks I get. The youth of today!”
“I didn’t even get any breakfast!” I cried. I was officially hangry (anger brought about by extreme hunger). “I have literally had NOTHING to eat since I got to this place, apart from a minging bit of sweaty cheese and a falafel! A falafel!”
“You are going off topic, boy,” muttered Grandad.
“Topic?” I repeated dreamily. “That’s a chocolate bar. I could do with one of them. Or a Kit-Kat, or a Mars bar… anything.” My mouth watered.
“Ssshh!” Grandad nodded towards the confused faces. I snapped out of it, turning once again to Mrs Hackenbottom.
“The point is – you let your cover drop,” I said.
Mrs Hackenbottom appealed to Fallon, opening out her arms. “Inspector, you’re not going to let this boy prattle on, are you? Arrest him.”
“For what?” asked Fallon.
“Time wasting, of course.”
Fallon said nothing, just turned back to me and nodded.
“He is letting you go on,” said Grandad. “Now is your chance, Jayesh. Finish her!”
I strode in front of the old lady and shook my finger at her. “You’ve been trying to get your hands on this hotel for a while now, haven’t you? Visiting here in disguise, you wanted to poison the food, drive away the guests, ruin the hotel’s reputation – all so the hotel would have to close down and Mr Shand would be forced to sell. But why, oh why, would a reputable worldwide corporation like yours behave like that? I mean, if you were caught in the act there would be hell to pay, your entire company would be under threat. Why resort to such dirty tactics? It just doesn’t make good business sense. Unle-e-e-ess…”
Grandad whipped his hands. “Aw, here he goes again. Unless what?”
“Unless it wasn’t business. Unless it was personal. Do you know Lord Brightburgh?”
“Of course not,” she replied, but her eyes twitched, betraying something. Was it fear? For the first time, I’d pricked her skin. “He’s a lord. I’m just a poor old pensioner.”
“That’s funny,” I said, “because when he came swaggering in here last night before he left for Edinburgh, it looked to me like he’d just seen a ghost. And now I’m thinking, maybe he had. A ghost from his past.”
A tiny bead of sweat appeared on the old lady’s creased forehead.
“I did a bit of digging on the internet. I found a really interesting article on Vienna Hillingdon. It said she’d been jilted at the altar as a young girl, an experience she never forgot. An experience that changed her. It turned her into the ruthless businesswoman she is today. The article also said that both she and Lord Brightburgh went to Cambridge University at around the same time. Funnily enough, there was a picture too.”
I held up Mum’s smartphone and angled it so that everyone could see. A faded photo showed a young man and woman linking arms and smiling. The man was clearly Lord Brightburgh and the woman was Vienna Hillingdon. Vera Hackenbottom might look wrinkled and old, but the resemblance to the young woman in the photo was unmistakable.
“I put it to you, Ms Hillingdon – since we’ve established that this is your real name – that it was Lord Brightburgh who stood you up on your wedding day. He was the one who humiliated you, who hurt you. So much so, that years later you’re still burning for revenge. You want Brightburgh desperately, because you want, finally, to become the lady of this manor, years and years after he deprived you of it. You want it so desperately that you’ll resort to poisoning the guests to close the Shands down and have them hand the place over to you. What do you say to that?”
She waved her hands around, flustered. But there was no denying it. I had her on the ropes. “This is all… This is nonsense!”
“Well, why don’t we bring Lord Brightburgh in here? He can tell us for sure.” I looked at Fallon, who turned and waved a finger at one of his officers. The officer departed out the front door, heading for Lord Brightburgh’s cottage.
“I don’t get it,” said Mum. “Is she Mrs Hackenbottom, Ms Hillingdon or Miss Marple?”
I ignored her. I was on a roll now. “You were the one hovering
over Starkey’s table last night when we came into the dining room. I’m guessing you found a discreet way of slipping the wolfsbane into his chicken noodle soup.”
“See!” came a muffled cry from the chef, who was still lying on his front on the floor with a policeman sitting across his back. “There is NOTHING wrong with my food! NOTHING. Did everyone hear that? Did you?”
Mrs Hackenbottom waved me away nervously. “What rubbish!”
“Oh, is it?” I said. “Cos the article this picture came from was written by an intrepid investigative reporter. I don’t suppose you can guess what her name was?”
I turned to Benedict Ravensbury, who was standing, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, watching me. “Why didn’t you mention that your friend Chase Whitton was a reporter?”
Ravensbury shrugged and shook his head, confused. “What did that have to do with anything?”
“It was the reason why you were here. Did she tell you that?”
“What? No,” he replied. “Chase suggested a weekend up in Scotland doing a spot of hill walking. Now that you mention it, it was a bit unusual for her, given how many times she told me she hated the outdoors, and leaving London for that matter, but I never thought…”
“It was her idea to come here,” I explained, “because she was on the trail of a story. She was onto this woman. You, Mr Ravensbury, were her cover.”
I gazed round at the faces of the crowd. They were enrapt. I had them hooked. “After Mr Starkey was killed, I found Chase Whitton snooping round in his room. I wondered why, but now it’s clear – she was already on the trail of the murderer. And then, in the small hours of last night, some time after the commotion had died down and the police had gone, Chase left her room. She was following Mrs Hackenbottom. She knew you weren’t who you appeared to be, she knew about your past with Lord Brightburgh. What she didn’t know, as she stepped down the stairs into the cellar, was that she was walking into a trap. Someone was waiting for her.” I turned back to Mrs Hackenbottom, whose eyes were now darting about in panic. “You were waiting for her. You made it look like an accident.”
Death by Soup Page 10