Chapter 23
Hunter’s waiting for me outside the library as everyone leaves.
‘Do you really think that was the best idea, bringing up the “goings-on”?’ he says, using his fingers to make scare-quotes around the words.
‘Yes. Yes, I do actually,’ I reply, pulling my shoulders back. ‘I should have mentioned it ages ago, really. I don’t know why I didn’t.’
I do know actually, and it’s exactly as Yasmin said: it was because I was convinced one of them might be involved. Which still might be the case.
‘I told you I would handle it, Rosie,’ Hunter says. ‘I told you I’d speak to Dante today, and we’d do our best to figure it out. But now you’ve taken it upon yourself to tell everybody someone’s sneaking around trying to scare off the guests, which means—’
‘Whoever’s behind it will know we’re onto them, and have the chance to cover their tracks,’ I interject, slapping a hand over my mouth. ‘God, I didn’t even think of that.’
‘Which means,’ Hunter goes on pointedly, ‘that you’ve just told a group of influencers about strange goings-on in the hotel.
Do you really think you can trust them to keep that to themselves?
Because, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think many people are going to want to stay in a hotel where they might find a stabbed turnip in their bed, are they? ’
‘Um, maybe?’ I reply. ‘If they like mysteries, possibly? Or . . . turnips? OK, OK, no,’ I groan, covering my face with my hands.
‘No, of course they won’t. I didn’t think of that, either.
I don’t think any of the influencers will try to publicise that, um, aspect of the hotel, though,’ I add, brightening.
‘They all still want to win the competition, so it would be pretty stupid of them to do anything to make the hotel look bad.’
Like I keep doing, for instance.
Hunter watches me silently for a moment.
‘Well, I hope you’re right, Rosie,’ he says, clearly unconvinced.
‘I am,’ I reply, with a confidence I don’t particularly feel.
‘No one’s going to post anything about turnips.
Well, other than me, obviously, and I took that video from yesterday down.
And tonight we’re going to the village fair, so that’ll definitely distract them all.
They’ll be too busy taking photos of Ferris wheels and carousels, and whatever else there is there, to think about who might have stolen my clothes for a few hours. ’
‘Aye. You’re probably right,’ he says, still sounding unsure. ‘I was planning to take Hannah to the fair tonight, myself, as a matter of fact,’ he adds, looking at me almost shyly. ‘She’s been bugging me about going ever since she heard about it.’
‘Oh. Right. So I guess I might see you there, then?’
I grin, unable to ignore the prickling of excitement that’s started up in my stomach at the thought of getting to see him again – and hopefully without the accompaniment of an angry mob this time.
Much to my relief, though, Hunter responds with a smile. A small one, true, but still – a smile.
‘Aye, you might,’ he says, a familiar twinkle in his eye, then looks at his watch. ‘I have to do some more work on the maze before the grand opening. I’ll, er, maybe see you later?’
I nod, not quite trusting myself to speak. I watch him stride off towards the stairs, then, realising I’ve left my phone in the library, I turn and duck quickly back into the room, stopping short when I find Dante still standing there, flicking through a book he’s taken from one of the shelves.
‘Whoops, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here,’ I mutter, darting forward to snatch up my phone, not exactly relishing the thought of being alone with Suspect #1.
‘I was just leaving,’ Dante says stiffly, quickly putting the book he’s holding back. He pauses for a second, as if he’s considering saying something else.
‘I know you’re enjoying your little game of Cluedo,’ he says at last. ‘But this isn’t a game to us, Rosie.
Me, Hunter, the rest of the staff. You’ll be going home in a couple of days, but we have to stay here and make this place work.
You might want to think about that before you start accusing people of being out to get you all the time. ’
I swallow nervously, hot tears prickling the backs of my eyes; tears of guilt, shame, and . . . is that anger?
‘It’s not a game to me either, Dante,’ I reply, confirming that the emotion lurking behind the others is, in fact, anger. ‘It’s actually happening. Someone’s been trying to scare me. I’m not imagining it, or making it up. And you can’t seriously expect me to pretend nothing’s going on, can you?’
Dante looks at me as if that’s exactly what he expects. Then he gives an almost imperceptible shrug.
‘I’ll speak to the staff,’ he says. ‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for . . .’
‘The goings-on?’ I supply helpfully.
Dante doesn’t bother to dignify this with an answer. Instead, he just gives a small nod, then goes stalking out of the room, looking like a man with the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. Or the weight of the hotel, at least.
I wait for a moment to make sure he’s not coming back, then quickly cross the room to the bookshelf he was standing next to. One of the books is sticking out from the rest slightly, as if whoever read it last didn’t take the time to replace it properly, and I slide it out, looking at it curiously.
A History of Glenmuir Castle, says the title on the hardback cover, above an old black-and-white photo of the castle, looking much the same as it does today, only without any of the cars that are normally parked outside it.
The book was published in 1950, according to the flyleaf, so it doesn’t go up to the present day, but I flick through it anyway, pausing to look at some of the sepia-toned photos, which show a selection of people in old-fashioned clothes, posed around the castle and grounds, their faces bleached to a ghostly pallor thanks to the age of the paper and low-quality photography.
It’s kind of creepy, actually.
I’m just about to put the book back again, when my eye falls on a photo of a group of young men, all standing in front of the castle, wearing clothes that look stiff and uncomfortable to my modern eyes.
‘Glenmuir Castle, 1925’ says the caption underneath. It’s not the year this photo was taken I’m interested in, though; it’s the tall man standing in the middle of the group, with his pale face and shiny black hair.
Dante.
He looks exactly like Dante.
Which means one of two things: either Dante actually is a vampire, who’s lived here for hundreds of years, or . . .
. . . he’s somehow related to the Glenmuirs.
Which is a far more likely explanation, really.
I scroll frantically back through my memory, trying to recall everything I’ve found out about the hotel manager since I arrived here.
His mother came from Italy, Hunter said; and fell in love with a Scotsman.
It obviously wasn’t the man in this photo (Well, not unless we’re going back to the ‘vampire’ theory, which is a stretch even for me), but maybe one of his descendants?
Dante and the Laird are as thick as thieves, Izzie’s voice says in my head. Ideas above his station, that one.
Oh, my God. Could Dante be the Laird’s nephew?
And, if so, could he be trying to scare me away from the hotel because he knows my poor attempts at influencing people to come here might ruin his chances of selling the place one day?
I stand clutching the book, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I consider this.
I have to find Hunter. I have to run this theory past him, and find out what he thinks. And I have to do it now.
I rush out of the room, and go running down the stairs and out into the grounds.
The maze. Hunter said he was going to do some work on the maze.
I set off at a jog, making my way around to the back of the castle, and past the beautiful, mirror-like lake, until I spot the entrance to the maze, the little tree Hunter was cutting down in front of it now reduced to just a stump.
The weather has changed again since this morning, a fog blowing in from the sea and shrouding the castle grounds in mist, while a cold breeze rustles the leaves on the trees.
Given the kind of luck I’ve been having, it’s probably not the best idea to get myself lost in a maze right now, but, as I approach, I can hear the steady thud of Hunter’s axe, which tells me he’s not too far from the entrance.
All the same, I hesitate before going in, wishing I had a ball of string or something I could unravel as I go, Famous Five style, so I could find my way back out easily.
Still, it’s not a particularly big maze. It can’t be that hard to find a way through it, surely?
That familiar feeling of foreboding hanging heavily over me, I take a step inside; then another, and another.
Nothing bad happens, so I speed up a little, following the sound of the axe falling; a stead thud, which would be ever-so-slightly ominous, if I didn’t know what – or rather who – was behind it.
All I have to do is find Hunter; then he’ll be able to help me find my way back out again.
The trees which make up the maze are taller than they looked from my bedroom window, the paths between them only wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The fog from the sea hangs wispily over us, giving the whole place a surreal, nightmarish quality, and I’ve only been walking for a couple of minutes when I hear the sobbing.
It’s low and unearthly, and makes goosebumps stand out on my arms, my entire body vibrating with fear.
This was a very bad idea.
My legs are trembling too much for me to run, so I open my mouth to scream, instead closing it abruptly as a familiar voice drifts over from the other side of the row of trees.