by Paul Magrs
As she scuttles off to the Ladies’ powder room, the kids start asking questions all at once. They all want to know what’s wrong with Effie. Of course she’s stand-offish and snooty at the best of times, but there’s something odder about her tonight.
‘I can’t really say what went on,’ I tell them. ‘Really, I was separated from her for much of the time. I didn’t see what transpired. But we went back to where she was… trained as a witch, back when she was a kiddie. We literally fell into the underground lair of the ghosts of the Bronte sisters…’
‘You’re kidding,’ gulps Penny. ‘You saw the Bronte sisters?’
I nod grimly. ‘What’s left of them. And nasty pieces of work they are indeed. I’m sure they’ve got Effie under their thrall. When she was in that place she changed… She was remembering things, I’m sure. It was as if she had been programmed by them, long ago, to remember things only when they needed her to.’
At this point, as we are all gabbling and I’m musing about Effie’s queerness, there’s a tussling and a rummaging from my handbag (also bought on a Parisian market.) Before I can stop it, the zip is unzipping itself and a chunky little figure is dropping out of my bag and onto the tiled floor of the fish restaurant.
‘What the hell’s that?!’ Robert cries out.
I grab his hand, to keep him from investigating. ‘Stop! Don’t! It’s a friend! It’s all right!’
From under the table there comes some scuffling footsteps and some filthy language, as Panda makes his way to Effie’s chair.
‘What is it?’ Penny gasps, dying to have a look underneath. ‘A goblin? A midget?’
‘What?!’ roars Panda from under the table.
‘It’s all right,’ I reassure them. ‘He should be in my bag. I’m not sure what he’s doing out.’
‘But who is it?’ asks Gila.
‘Just a new friend I made in Haworth.’ Then I get down and peer under the tablecloth. Instantly this makes me feel a bit dizzy, but I can see Panda standing by Effie’s chair. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I was going to jump in her bag and smuggle myself home with her,’ Panda grunts. ‘But the daft old bat has taken her bag into the lavatory!’
Then I hear Robert’s voice telling us, ‘She’s coming back!’
I straighten up – too quickly – and see the spinning black wheels again. Suddenly I don’t feel hungry anymore.
Effie sits down, mercifully missing the small fun-fur-covered creature hiding underneath her chair. ‘Is something the matter?’ she asks stiffly.
‘No, no…’ We all shake our heads, and I feel sad, suddenly, at how distant and strange my best friend is being.
We all order desserts and coffees and I splash out on a crème-de-menthe knickerbocker glory. All the while I’m hoping Effie doesn’t notice something stirring under the table, by her feet, trying to open the buckles of her fancy handbag without her noticing. Will Panda manage it with his clumsy paws? And more to the point, why is he even attempting this? Why is he smuggling himself into the home of his erstwhile owner? Why can’t he just declare his presence to her and give her a nice surprise? Perhaps he thinks she won’t be pleased to see him at all. Perhaps he thinks she has changed that much. And Effie is not to be trusted.
I don’t know what to think, as I salve my slight dizziness with huge gulps of crème de menthe ice cream. How have I come to trust a talking stuffed bear more than my ally and colleague in all these investigations? Things have come to an un-pretty pass.
And then it’s time to divide the bill and to pay our ways and then amble together to the western side of town, over the swing bridge as the last of the light fades from the open skies.
Effie slinks off ahead, pleading tiredness. She waves us all goodnight and hurries on ahead, clutching her handbag to her skinny old chest. Keep still, Panda! I want to call to him.
‘She’s got the right hump,’ Penny frowns, as we make our own, more sedate way across the harbour and through the winding streets.
‘Oh, you know, she gets into these moods,’ I say airily. ‘I think going back into her past like that has disturbed her quite a bit. It’s all that Limbousine’s fault, you know. We should put that phantom driver out of business.’
‘Here, hear,’ says Penny. ‘He almost managed to get Mr Danby on board, you know. But Mr Danby wasn’t having any of it. He…’
‘Mr Danby?’ I hear myself screeching in the dark street. I sound more vehement than I mean to. ‘What? Have you been back in his shop? You haven’t been seeing him again, have you, Penny? He’s dangerous!’
Penny looks abashed and, before she can explain herself, Robert says, ‘She’s got herself a little job, haven’t you Pen? As if the Miramar doesn’t keep her busy enough.’
I glare at her. ‘What?’
‘I’m helping out Mr Danby in his bookshop. There’s no harm in that, is there?’
I despair of her sometimes, I really do. ‘Of course there’s harm in it! That man is wicked through and through! From his horrid baldy head down to his shiny black shoes! You can’t work for him, Penny! There’ll be something nefarious behind this, you mark my words!’
Penny looks flummoxed and upset for a moment. Then she looks cross. She turns on her heel and starts marching away. ‘I’ll do what I want, thanks, Brenda,’ she calls over her shoulder.
‘What’s got into her?’ I ask Robert.
He shrugs. ‘Something in the air. I dunno. She’s been right mardy at the Miramar, too, actually.’ He sighs and kisses me goodnight. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he promises, and then hurries after Penny.
This leaves only Gila, standing with me by the side alley that leads to my B&B. For a second I think he wants to talk to me about his relationship with Robert and I really feel too tired to go into all that tonight. But instead Gila tells me, ‘There’ve been more killings at the Christmas Hotel. Mrs Claus is definitely involved. Will you come with me and help? I’m a bit stuck on how to go on with this case.’
Well, hurray for Gila. While everyone else is throwing strops or keeping secrets or landing themselves needlessly in peril, Gila is busily getting on with his job. Only this shy lizard boy from another dimension can be trusted to do what he’s told.
I promise to help and give him a hug goodnight.
Then I hurry up the alley and I’m home safe in my B&B and ready to sleep as deeply as I can for at least nine hours.
And so I do.
§
It’s the following evening that sees me returning to the Christmas Hotel. Gila is with me, looking nervous and unsure, as we arrive at the front desk. We ask the elf on duty if we may have an audience with the proprietress.
He rings through, looking me up and down. I’m wearing an anorak and obviously that isn’t good enough for an evening at the Christmas Hotel. All around us the guests are dolled up to the nines, and trimmed in tinsel, giddily making their way to the main dining room, where it’s Pie and Peas Night.
We are given permission to visit Mrs Claus in her private rooms, which comes as a surprise. On the way through the snaking corridors I tell Gila, ‘Now, if we’re to be throwing around wild accusations in there, we need to be very sure of our facts.’
‘I’m very sure,’ he says grimly. He’s greener about the gills than usual. Bless him, he looks a treat in a sort of track suit thing. A shell suit, I think they call them. ‘And what’s more,’ he hisses, ‘Mrs Claus is implicated in it. She has to be.’
‘Well, all right, sweetheart,’ I say. Then I realise how much anger he’s got smouldering away inside. Is it about what’s been going on here with the mermaids, or is it about Robert? Hard to tell and, funnily enough, Robert texts me as we arrive at the private rooms of Mrs Claus.
‘Where RU? Called at yours tonight. Need to talk. Advice! Don’t know what 2 do.’
I put it away quickly before Gila can see. Th
en the door swishes open, automatically admitting us to the snug fairyland within.
‘Good evening, my dears,’ cackles Mrs Claus from the confines of her motorized scooter. She throws up her painted claws and beams at us horribly, making her dewlaps tremble and shake. She’s decked out like the town hall tree, with golden spangly tights, a scarlet sheath frock and a hundred yards of green tinsel wrapped about her. She looks more hideous than ever before and I hear Gila take in a quick breath at the sight of her.
She offers us a tumbler of sweet sherry and sits us down by her blazing hearth.
‘This is an honour,’ she coos. ‘What brings you two into my innermost realm?’
‘We’ve got some concerns,’ I begin gravely.
‘Oh yes?’
‘There are certain things that my colleague here, Gila, has brought to my attention.’
‘Oho! Colleague is it?’ Now the old monster is wrestling with a tin of shortbread. She can’t quite get the lid off. ‘So your pretty little lizard boy has joined the ranks of Brenda’s spook-hunting team, has he?’ She eyes Gila keenly until he has to look away. Then the shortbread tin springs open, scattering crumbly biscuits everywhere. ‘Buggeration,’ she gasps. ‘Would you mind picking that lot up?’
Obliging lad that he is, Gila hastens to pick up the pieces. I want to tell him not to bother. That Mrs Claus is just toying with him. Making him do her bidding, putting him off his stroke.
‘Yes, Gila’s been an excellent addition to our… investigative team, if you want to call it that.’
‘Oh, Bren, you’re so earnest about it all! You want to lighten up, darling. And you, Gila, you want to watch out for this old mare. When she gets together on a case with my lovely daughter Effie, well, it can be murder. They wind each other up something rotten and start seeing menace in every shadow. Why, have they told you? They once set about investigating me! Me, I ask you! Claiming I was having elves of mine killed and baked into pies!’ Here she screeches with appalled and indignant laughter. ‘Isn’t that ridiculous?’
I squeeze my sherry glass so tightly it just about smashes. ‘Not so ridiculous, if I remember, lady. We found bodies and all sorts in your freezer.’
She waves her arms about crossly. ‘That was a dodgy chef we’d hired that season. Big mistake. And yes, there were a few unfortunate deaths, and so on. But nothing you could pin on me, darling.’
Now Gila is standing up, proffering the tin of broken shortbread and carpet fluff. ‘We are here about more deaths,’ he says.
She smiles at him sweetly and bats her crimson eyelashes. ‘What was that, dear?’
‘More suspicious deaths. Recently. Here at the Christmas Hotel.’
‘Ahh,’ she purrs, grabbing the tin off him and casting it aside onto a nest of tables. ‘You’re quite right. There have been some nasty accidents. Five deaths, if I remember correctly. Yes. Most unfortunate for the victims and their families. I do hope nobody’s making a big fuss about them, though. I don’t want my autumn and winter bookings going down because of a few silly accidents.’
Gila comes back with, ‘They weren’t accidents.’
‘Of course they were, darling. Old men flinging themselves off clifftops. Drowning in the bath. Suicide in every case. And all of them were crazy, you know.’
‘No,’ says Gila, facing up to her very nicely. ‘You can’t fob me off. There’s something in this hotel. Something that’s been killing your guests. Something in the pipes.’
‘The pipes?’ she looked incredulous. ‘I assure you that this hotel is spotless.’
‘I don’t mean germs and diseases,’ he says. ‘I’m talking about tiny women. Women with tails and needlelike teeth. I’m talking about flesh-eating mermaids.’
Mrs Claus’ eyes are just about out on stalks. She looks at me. ‘Is he kidding?’
I shake my head. ‘Do you know anything about this, Mrs Claus?’
‘Of course not! The boy’s raving! He’s crackers, Brenda. I don’t know what dimension it is you dragged him out of, but they obviously have more exotic fauna than we do here! Miniature flesh-eating mermaids indeed!’
‘You’re just covering up,’ he says. ‘You’re trying to pretend it isn’t happening.’
All of a sudden Mrs Claus looks worried. A shadow of fear slips across her overly made-up face. ‘Get him away from me, Brenda. I won’t have some young bloke talking to me like that! Oh no, you can’t come in here accusing me of all sorts! I won’t have it! Now, go on, take your lizard man and go!’
I put down my glass and stand up, pulling my unflattering anorak straight. ‘If that’s how you want it. We came here in order to help you. If, as seems likely, you’ve got these vicious creatures in your cisterns and tubes, we were willing to help you flush them out. As it is, you’ll have to get rid of them yourself.’
‘I haven’t got anything in my plumbing!’ she cries, just on the edge of hysteria.
I keep my voice very level. ‘But I’ve heard them for myself, Mrs Claus. I have heard the mermaids singing in the toilets of the Christmas Hotel.’
Whatever I say, though, the old behemoth will not be assuaged.
She has rung for elves to come and chuck us out onto the pavement on the West cliff.
‘That didn’t go too well,’ says Gila ruefully.
‘Hmm,’ I muse. ‘It’s hard to know what the best tactic is with her. I thought bearding her in her den, being upfront, all that would work. But she’s frightened, isn’t she? She knows all about these mermaid creatures and she wants to pretend it’s not happening.’
Outside the hotel I realise I’m unconsciously reading a poster for cabaret night at the end of the week. It’s boldly advertising the hotel’s regular entertainments, but added to the bill is another act. ‘Mr Danby Does Magic.’ I groan. What’s the snide little fool up to now?
‘Brenda?’ Gila says. ‘Look, here comes Effie.’
He’s right. She’s in the chic’est of the outfits she bought in Paris – a little jacket and skirt in magenta wool with a pink trim. She’s tottering along the pavement towards the hotel’s main entrance.
‘Effie?’ I call.
She twitches, turns her head, and her first expression is one of displeasure at the sight of me. I reel back as if I’ve been slapped. Why should she look at me like that? What have I done to her?
I hurry to meet her, Gila tagging behind.
‘Hello there, ducky,’ she says, rather wearily.
‘Your outfit looks terrific,’ I tell her.
She sniffs and brushes at her jacket. She wants to be away from me as quickly as possible, I can tell. ‘Yes, well,’ she says. ‘It ought to look good. It cost enough.’
‘Are you going to the Christmas Hotel?’
She tuts. ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’
‘We’ve just been in there,’ I smile, making a joke out of it. ‘We got thrown out, didn’t we, Gila?’
Effie doesn’t return the smile. She says, ‘I’m going to see my mother, if you must know.’
‘It was her who chucked us out,’ I say. ‘She’s in a funny, evasive mood.’
Effie turns to go. ‘I’m… going to tell her some of what happened to us in Haworth. I’m going to tell her some of what I learned.’
She holds my eyes for just a second. Her own eyes are watery and very green. Light green, like chocolate limes. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Can you trust her?’
She looks away and hurriedly makes for the revolving door. ‘Of course I can trust her. And there’s no one else I can talk to about this. About what I learned under the ground.’
She’s forcing the words out of herself. It’s as if some almighty struggle was going on within her skinny frame. Then she’s stepped into the doors and she’s revolved herself into the glitzy wonderland of her mother’s hotel.
‘She’s acting so weird,’
Gila says. ‘What happened to you both in Haworth?’
I shrug. ‘Honestly, Gila? I’m not even sure.’
§
It’s funny, but that evening I’m half expecting to hear from Robert. He’s been so wound-up-looking when I’ve seen him recently, and I know he’s keen to give me the details of his apparent infidelity. All evening I’m waiting for a little call to announce that he’s on the way down.
Really, though, I could do without it. I honestly don’t want to hear any more revelations or intimations. And poor Gila, too! I don’t want to hear about any kind of secret I’ll feel obliged to keep from him.
The air turns thick and golden, slanting through my attic rooms and illuminating the gently-falling dust. It’s no good, really – I can’t keep up with the cleaning. I scour and dust and mop and soon as I turn around again, it’s back again, worse than it was. This is starting to feel like some horrible enchantment. I stare out of my window at the roofs of town and the crooked chimneys and the stark headland beyond and consider this. An enchantment is over me. Muckying up my home and making my friends act bizarrely. This was what the warnings were about. The slow, terrible erosion of everything I have become used to. Everything that I have allowed myself to take for granted these past few years – happiness, contentment, friendship, and my own place to look after and to keep immaculate.
I move about my house and find dirty footprints on the stair carpets. Watermarks on the mirrors. Scratches on the wooden furniture, holes in the soft furnishings. Could it be I never noticed these signs of ruination and decay before? Perhaps they have all snuck up on me. Have I been blind to the wicked forces of entropy coursing through my home?
More letters. More bookings to go in my diary. And – you’ve guessed it – more of them appear to be academics, who found my B&B recommended by the good doctors Hoffmann and Hoffmann. Reading the latest of these beautifully typed missives, I’m becoming highly suspicious. This one is from the deputy editor of a literary journal, according to his letterhead. A journal known as ‘Tendencies.’ If I didn’t have his university address to prove he’s a respectable person, I’d have assumed that was an unsavoury sort of publication. But what can these people possibly want with me?