“That was a good night’s work, boy,” Grandad said as we made our way downstairs to the dining room. Mum and Granny followed behind. “A poisoning, two squashings and a burglary, all solved. I think you have earned yourself a nice big breakfast now. And, hey, with my improving ghost skills I could probably make you one myself.”
“It’s not quite over,” I replied, as I sat down at the table.
He deflated slightly. “What? Don’t tell me there’s even more?”
I flicked open the Yummy Cola letter. “The invitation. Someone was determined that we come here, so determined they invented a fake competition. We got distracted solving the theft of the bell and the murders, but we still don’t know who brought us here in the first place. So, who was it?”
Someone, I thought, who wanted us out of the way, somewhere far from home, far away from any prying eyes. Perhaps someone who wanted to see us, to meet us here. Here in the country, miles away from Glasgow…
Mum had her phone at her ear as she sat down. “Jay, there’s a message for you.”
I took the phone off her and listened. Only when I heard the voice did I remember. It was the lady from the marketing department of Yummy Cola. She’d said she was going to get back to me, and here she was.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Patel,” crackled the polite voice on the message, “but I’ve checked with everyone here, and there is no Yummy Cola competition. We’ve never even heard of the hotel. Perhaps you mixed us up with another company?”
My suspicions confirmed, I deleted the message and handed the phone back to Mum. Meanwhile, Grandad was stroking his ghostly green chin. “You know, come to think on it, your father was quite partial to Yummy Cola when he was your age.”
Was he indeed…
Arek, now in his waiter’s uniform, shimmied out of the kitchen doors with some plates. He was humming and whistling, and for a change there didn’t seem to be a single bead of sweat on his brow.
One of the plates was mine, containing a massive serving of fried breakfast: eggs, sausages, bacon, fried bread, beans, the lot. I rubbed my hands and got stuck in. “Shand didn’t fire you after all?” I asked around a mouthful of wonderful, delicious food.
“No.” Arek smiled. “Mr Shand knows fine well this place would fall apart without me.”
He placed the second plate in front of Granny, a dish of carefully prepared suki yaki: a huge mound of sardines with lots of cream crackers artfully poking out. The chef popped his head round the kitchen door, making eyes at Granny. “I hope you enjoy your breakfast, my little Scottish warrior!”
Grandad bristled with anger. For a second I almost thought he was going to lose his ghostly green hue and turn red. He tried to take up a blocking position between Granny and the chef, even though he was a ghost and the only one who could see him was me. “What are you looking at?” Grandad yelled. “She is my girl, not yours, now back off or I’ll haunt you!”
He needn’t have worried, though. Granny wasn’t paying the chef any attention. She turned to the waiter and croaked, “Ah’ve gone aff that rubbish.” Then she pointed at my heaving plate. “Ah’ll have whit he’s havin’.”
“Yes, madam,” said Arek, and he whisked the plate away and returned to the kitchen.
Benedict Ravensbury was sitting at his table alone. He stood up, dabbed his mouth with his napkin and stepped towards me, carrying something in the crook of his arm, something green, with the texture of snakeskin.
“I’m off now,” he said sadly. “But I thought this should go to you, it’s Chase’s diary.” He placed the book on the table and pushed it in my direction. “You ask a lot of questions. Chase would approve.” Then he nodded and left.
I unclipped the cover and flicked it open. Her last entry was dated the night before last, probably written a few hours before her death:
“What a nice lady!” I murmured.
*
After we’d finished eating we wandered out into the lobby to check out. Mr Shand was on his own behind the reception desk, whistling happily. He looked like a new man.
“Och! It’s nice to see you with a spring in your step, Mr Shand,” said Mum.
“Well, why not?” he replied. “Once the news gets out the TV crews and the reporters are going to be all over this place. It’s a perfect time to relaunch our hotel.”
“Relaunch?” I asked.
“Yes. From now on it’s going to be a murder mystery hotel.” Mrs Shand appeared from the office, both ends of a fake knife poking out either side of her head, complete with fake blood. Amazingly, she smiled, and Mr Shand beamed back at her. “It was my wife’s idea. I only set up our Facebook page this morning and we’ve already got loads of bookings.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” yelled Grandad. He was behind the reception desk, peering over Shand’s shoulder at the guest book. “Jayesh! Guess whose name I’ve just seen?”
Shand laid the book aside and stepped away, giving me a chance to peek over the desk.
There, in amongst a column of Shand’s scribbly handwriting, I spotted one name; a name that stood out like a beacon and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
LYLE OAKEN
The same name from the back of my subway ticket at home, the only piece of evidence I had from the day of my Dad’s disappearance.
My mind whirred as we trooped outside and loaded up the van. This was too much of a coincidence. Whoever this Lyle Oaken person was, they were definitely connected to my dad. I knew that the Yummy Cola competition was fake, and that someone had wanted me and my family to come here for a reason – what if Lyle Oaken was that someone? But, what if Lyle Oaken wasn’t just someone? What if Lyle Oaken was actually my dad? What if he’d brought us here because he wanted to see us, and for us to see him? Maybe he wanted to explain to us why he disappeared, and to let us know that he was alright. Maybe home is being watched, maybe it isn’t safe…
So what had gone wrong? Why didn’t he let us know he was here? After the murders, and the police swarming everywhere, perhaps Brightburgh Manor wasn’t safe either. What would I do in his position? I wouldn’t have risked showing myself, not with everything going on. I would just step back into the shadows and wait for another time.
The party of German golfers were packing themselves into a van beside us, on their way to the airport. They were still laughing, joking and singing. Even now, they had no idea the murders had actually been real. I waved at them, wondering if I should ask who had won their bet. They cheered and waved at Granny as they drove off, “Auf Wiedershen, Frau Karate!”
“Now,” said Mum with a little sigh, as we all got into the van, “home, home, home.” She turned the key in the ignition but Petal failed to start. Mum’s face twisted up into a snarl as she turned it over and over again. “Come ON! COME ON! Ya big toaley!”
Finally, the engine spluttered into life, and we made our way down the long drive. Granny flicked through her Shotokan Karate magazine one last time, before yawning and tossing it out the window.
Grandad, meanwhile, was peering through the rear window. “Look.” He nodded up at the ruins and blinked. The morning mist was rolling through the stones, and the ghostly figure of the Grey Lady was fading. “That’s her off now.” He pointed his finger to the sky, “She’s done what she came back to do. Not me, though.” He grinned. “I’ve still got plenty of life left in me.”
Grandad blinked again, and the figure was gone. Or was it? I squinted. Where the Grey Lady had been just a moment before stood another figure. Nothing more than a shape in the mist. A tall, dark figure, with broad shoulders. A man’s shoulders. It moved under a tree, just behind the ruins, watching as we drove away.
My heart pounded in my chest and I was about shout at Mum to stop the van, but just as quickly as it appeared, the figure backed away, disappearing into the shadows once again.
“Next time, Dad,” I murmured under my breath. Grandad was the only one who heard me say it. “Next time.”
“Huh!” he smiled
. “Jayesh, with you there is always a next time.”
He was right about that. Oh boy, was he right.
Copyright
Kelpies is an imprint of Floris Books
First published in 2018 by Floris Books
Text © 2018 David MacPhail
Illustrations © 2018 Floris Books
This eBook edition published in 2018
David MacPhail and Laura Aviñó have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the Author and Illustrator of this Work
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the prior permission of Floris Books, Edinburgh www.florisbooks.co.uk
The publisher acknowledges subsidy from
Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume
British Library CIP data available
ISBN 978–178250–537–2
Death by Soup Page 12