Chapter 4
Eve couldn’t pinpoint when exactly she had visited the White Octopus, but it must have been when she was very small.
A family holiday, perhaps, before Bella died and it all went wrong.
Eve never talked about those years with her parents.
Even when she’d lived at home, it was a rule that they never, ever spoke about the time before, not a word.
But Eve remembered snippets sometimes—pleasant outings to feed ducks on a pond, or riding the bus into town to buy new shoes, or filling a paper bag with sweets in a sugar-scented shop full of jars.
There had been normal, happy moments…at least for a little while.
And surely, they must have gone on holiday to Switzerland one year and stayed at this hotel.
When Eve searched her mind for details, she could practically hear the tinkling notes of a pianist playing in the lobby, and smell the icy-fresh peppermint creams served on silver plates during afternoon tea, and see the sparkle of the sun setting over the emerald lake.
Headlines speculated that something strange must have happened at the hotel that night.
Why else would everyone get up and leave in the middle of a party?
Especially when it was cold and snowing outside, and miles to the nearest town.
There were even rumours of guests abandoning their fur coats in the cloakroom.
But the mystery was never explained, and the hotel didn’t reopen.
It seemed that it was located in an area of the Alps that fell out of favour with tourists, and no investor was ever found with deep enough pockets to bring the hotel back to life.
It was a peculiar story, and Eve recognised that parts of it had clearly been embellished and made fantastical beyond belief.
It was intriguing to think that her tea set might once have graced the hotel’s veranda, though.
In the days and weeks that followed, Eve couldn’t get the place out of her mind.
She found herself reading about the hotel in her spare moments and looking at photos online.
She became distracted at work, unable to concentrate on the paintings in front of her.
Even her dreams were filled with champagne parties and white tentacles.
She’d wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to get back to sleep for thinking about the hotel.
She drew the building in her sketchbooks over and over again.
And then she drew the rooms as she imagined them to be—a mixture of Cluedo-style mansion and dark fairy-tale castle.
She couldn’t shake the conviction that she had been to the White Octopus, even though she knew it was impossible.
She went back through her dozens of sketchbooks, the pages filled with gigantic eyes and elegant tentacles that spilled across the pages, all with that single black tip.
One rainy Sunday afternoon, while following various virtual rabbit warrens online for information about the hotel, she came across an expired listing for an item that had been sold at another auction house last year.
It was a gilded menu with the name of the White Octopus Hotel printed at the bottom of the page.
Eve recognised the distinctive lavender-grey hue of the paper.
Not only that, but there was a stamped emblem of a white octopus at the top—and it was in every way identical to the china ornament she’d received from Max Everly and the tea set she’d found in France.
She began asking around the other staff members at the auction house.
Most of them had never heard of the White Octopus Hotel.
A few, like Kate, were aware of the story but clearly viewed it as nothing more than a myth.
It seemed there was no further information to be found at work, but Eve’s interest in the White Octopus Hotel was a thirst that couldn’t be quenched.
Finally, she thought of Victor, the valuer Kate had told her about.
Eve had met him a few times before he retired, and he’d always been pleasant and friendly.
It wasn’t too difficult to get his contact details from HR by pretending she’d found some old paperwork of his that needed to be returned.
She considered phoning first but then decided to visit instead.
She doubted he’d remember her, and it would be easier to talk to him in person.
She arrived at his home on a bright Saturday morning, with the white octopus Max Everly had given her wrapped up in her bag.
A visitor turning up unannounced and uninvited was Eve’s idea of hell and as she knocked on his door, she suddenly wondered whether she ought to have brought something.
Cakes, perhaps? Pastries? It was too late now, though, and Eve gritted her teeth at the knowledge that Bella would certainly have brought cakes.
Then the door opened, and a middle-aged woman in scrubs greeted her cheerfully.
“Hi,” Eve replied. “Is Victor in?”
She nodded. “I’m Molly, his carer. Is he expecting you? He didn’t mention a visitor today, but he forgets things sometimes.”
“No, he’s not expecting me,” Eve admitted. “I’m an old colleague.”
“From the auction house?”
“Yes. Eve Shaw. I was hoping to speak with him about…about a work thing.”
Molly looked dubious. “He hasn’t worked there in years, so—”
“I know, but it’s important.”
Molly shrugged. “I’ll ask. He’ll probably enjoy a natter anyway.”
She flashed Eve a grin and disappeared into the house, returning a few moments later to usher her inside.
“Go on through. He’s in the living room.”
“Thanks.”
Eve went in the direction indicated and found a room filled with books.
Victor was sat in an armchair with a blanket over his knees and a paperback novel in his hands.
He put this down when she walked in and removed his reading glasses to peer at her.
He was thinner and frailer than Eve remembered but had the same untidy white hair and kindly brown eyes.
“I’m sorry to turn up like this,” she began in a rush. “You probably don’t remember me, but I work at Stanley’s and—”
“Molly said,” Victor replied. “Forgive me for not standing, but my knees are playing up today. Make yourself comfortable.” He waved towards the sofa opposite him.
“I do remember you, as it happens. You’re the one they call the Black Widow.
You know, they probably wouldn’t do that if you smiled once in a while… .”
Eve decided right then that she wouldn’t smile for the entire visit. “I don’t care what people call me.”
He shrugged. “You’re here to discuss the White Octopus Hotel, I imagine?”
“Did Kate phone you?” she asked, startled.
“No.”
“Then how did you know?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why else would someone from the auction house turn up here out of the blue?”
Eve sat down just as Molly came in with a tray of tea and biscuits. “That’s me done,” she announced cheerfully. “I’ll be back this evening. Don’t forget your tablets at lunchtime.”
The front door closed and then it was just the two of them.
“So which object did you find?” Victor asked.
“Pardon?”
“From the hotel.” He looked eager, almost greedy. “I’m guessing you found one of the objects. Is it too much to hope that you brought it with you?”
Eve reached into her bag and unwrapped the octopus.
“May I?” Victor asked, already reaching out his hand.
She passed it over. He put his glasses back on and carefully inspected it from every angle. There was something almost reverential about the way he held it.
“What does it do?” he murmured.
“I’m sorry?”
He looked up at her. “What kind of magic does it have?”
Eve watched him carefully. “Do you really think that objects from the hotel have magic?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think it, I know it. I’ve experienced it. I assumed you had too. Why else would you be interested in the place?”
Eve took the octopus from him, knowing she could only give half of the true explanation.
She didn’t want to mention the tattoo that was currently climbing the small of her back, her sketchbooks at home, or her own octopuses with their single black tentacle tip, because then he might want to know when and why she’d started drawing them and she didn’t want to get into that with anyone, much less a stranger.
“Kate told me the story about the hotel,” she said. “I wanted to find out more about it because the ornament came to me via…unusual circumstances.”
She saw Max Everly placing the item on her desk once again, heard the warmth in his voice as he spoke to her.
Everyone should have something on their birthday….
She recalled the feel of his hand in hers and experienced the strangest pang of loss.
“The White Octopus Hotel has been a fascination of mine for decades,” Victor said. “I worked in auction houses for fifty years, and every now and then, if you’re lucky, you discover an object that is truly remarkable in some way. I have a few stories, but nothing that compares to the music box.
“It came across my path while I was working in France in my twenties. I’d heard of the White Octopus, but obviously I thought it was a myth—like everyone does to begin with.
Some of its objects are better known amongst auctioneers than others.
For example, most people with a passing interest in the hotel know that the telephone from the Smoking Room will allow you to make a single phone call to someone who’s died.
Other objects, such as the guest book—and your own octopus—are a bit more mysterious.
But the music box is famous in White Octopus circles. ”
“For doing what?”
He smiled. “The music box,” he said softly, “isn’t what you might expect it to be. It looks more like a child’s plaything, really, with its little mouse musicians. But it can play the most beautiful music ever composed in the world.”