Chapter 28
Without hesitating, everyone rushes for the doors, piling out of the ballroom in a way that’s really quite strange to me, because shouldn’t we all be running away from this ghost – or whatever it is – rather than towards it?
But, then again, there are no such things as ghosts; and I, of all people, should know that, after my encounter with Hannah just a few days ago.
So, as the last person goes thundering past me, a foil-wrapped jacket potato clutched firmly in his hand like a grenade, I give myself a quick shake, then follow along behind them all.
I reach the hotel lobby a few seconds behind everyone else, and am just in time to see a tall, ethereal figure in a long, bloodstained silk dress, come gliding down the wide staircase, its dark hair cascading down its back in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of . . .
‘Bex?’ says Zara, pushing her way to the front of the crowd, who’ve all stopped short at the sight of the apparition. ‘Bex, what on earth’s happened? Is that blood on you?’
Bex – because it’s blindingly obvious even to me, without my contact lenses, that the ghost is none other than everyone’s favourite influencer, Bex Foster – takes a step towards us, making someone behind me scream.
‘Shhh, Millie,’ says Yasmin’s voice reassuringly. ‘It’s just Bex. It’s OK.’
‘It is not OK,’ shrieks Bex, in a tone that sends the children in the crowd rushing for the safety of their parents’ arms. ‘Look at my dress! It’s ruined! It’s completely ruined!’
Sure enough, the pale green silk of her dress is splattered with something red and sticky that looks exactly like blood. It’s the prom scene from Carrie come to life. It’s every Gothic horror movie I’ve ever seen. It’s . . .
‘Ketchup,’ says Zara, dabbing at it with her finger, and then licking it experimentally. ‘Yeah, that’s definitely ketchup. What happened, Bex? Were you trying to open a new bottle or something?’
‘Of course not,’ replies Bex sharply. ‘Why would I be trying to open a bottle of ketchup in my room? No, I laid the dress out on the bed, ready to change into it after my shower, and when I came out of the bathroom, it looked like this.’
‘So . . . you put it on and came downstairs in it?’ says Zara, sounding like she’s in a courtroom drama. ‘I mean, why? Why wouldn’t you just, I dunno, wear something else?’
Bex glares at her. ‘For your information, Zara,’ she snaps, ‘I had to put it on because all of my other clothes were covered in this . . . whatever this is . . . too.’
‘Ketchup,’ supplies Zara again. ‘It’s ketchup. But wait – seriously? All of your clothes are covered in ketchup?’
‘Yes! I just said that. Someone must have crept into my room while I was in the shower. And now it’s ruined! It’s all ruined!’
Bex’s voice breaks on the last word, and Zara pats her comfortingly on the arm as, all around us, people start talking again; some of them wondering aloud what’s going on, and others mildly disappointed that the ghost drama has turned out to be just some woman in need of a washing machine and a bottle of stain remover.
‘Where’s Sabrina?’ says Zara, looking around the packed lobby. ‘And Dante? We’re going to have to get to the bottom of this; it’s getting out of hand now. And I really want to go and check my room, too, just in case whoever’s doing this is going after all of us.’
‘Oh, right, now it’s getting out of hand,’ I blurt, annoyed. ‘It was fine when it was just me being targeted, but now that Bex is involved, we’re “going to have to get to the bottom of it”?’
Zara gives me a steely kind of look that makes me think she’d make a great cop; or maybe a high court judge.
‘You only told us about your turnip thing a few hours ago,’ she points out, sounding annoyingly reasonable. ‘And we’ve been out at the fair since then. But, yeah, we’re going to have to get to the bottom of it for sure. Look at the state of her.’
Everyone looks at Bex, who obligingly does a slow pirouette, showcasing the ketchup-stained dress in all its glory.
‘I’ll go and find Hunter,’ I say quietly. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
I turn around on the spot, trying to find him, but although most people have started to drift back to the ballroom and the feast that awaits them there, the lobby is still too crowded for me to be able to make much headway.
‘What is the meaning of this ruckus?’
The room falls quiet as a loud voice goes booming across the lobby, silencing even Bex.
Standing at the top of the wide staircase is an elderly gentleman looking dapper in an old-fashioned velvet dressing grown and a pair of smartly pressed pyjamas.
He’s leaning on a walking stick, and his pure white hair is standing on end, as if he’s just got out of bed.
‘Oh, my God,’ says Millie in a squeaky voice. ‘That one really is a ghost.’
‘That’s not a ghost,’ says Hannah, scornfully. ‘That’s just Dougie.’
To everyone’s surprise, she goes bounding up the stairs and takes the old man by the hand.
‘Ah, Hannah,’ he says, beaming down at her.
‘You’re here. Good. Now, where’s that nephew of mine?
I need him to get all of these intruders off my property.
Damn nuisance they are. Shouting and arguing loud enough to wake the dead. ’
He attempts to shake his walking stick at us all, but ends up wobbling so dangerously he has to grab hold of Hannah’s shoulder to steady himself.
‘Is that the Laird?’ says Ian from the back of the crowd. ‘We’ve been wanting a word with him. Let me through, will ye . . .’
‘The Laird?’ yells someone. ‘I thought the Laird was dead? I heard a rumour that the handyman murdered him?’
‘Aye, I heard that as well,’ says someone else. ‘The murdering bastard!’
Outrage fizzes through the crowd like electricity, everyone shouting at once about how we should call the police, or, at the very least, barricade the doors to make sure no one can escape until justice can be served.
I shiver, despite the heat from the fire.
‘Are you all daft?’ pipes up Izzie, as if it wasn’t her who started the rumour in question. ‘The Laird’s alive and well, as you can plainly see. Well, he’s alive, anyway. Now let’s all pipe down and hear what he has to say. Is the bawbag nephew here too, though? I thought he was in Glasgow?’
The entire room seems to hold its breath, and I definitely do, staring up at Lord Glenmuir as he stands at the top of the stairs, and feeling quietly smug about the fact that he looks almost exactly as I imagined him: magnificently cantankerous, and just a tiny bit like Albert Einstein.
‘Is the nephew in Glasgow meeting with the people from WanderNest?’ says Daniel Foster, obviously forgetting that this whole WanderNest thing is supposed to be a big secret. ‘Is the sale of the hotel going ahead, then?’
‘Sale? What sale? What are you talking about, camera boy?’ Izzie elbows her way towards us, her sharp eyes focused on Daniel, who seems to sober up a little under the force of her gaze.
‘Ask him.’ He shrugs, nodding in the approximate direction of the Laird. ‘He’ll know more than me. It’s his nephew who’s trying to sell the hotel. That’s why he’s in Glasgow. At least I think that’s why he’s in Glasgow. Is he in Glasgow? Dante’ll know. Where’s Dante?’
He turns around on the spot, then promptly falls over, stumbling into the arms of Callum, who manages to catch him just before he crashes to the floor.
‘Where’s this nephew, more like?’ says someone else. ‘That’s who we need to speak to, surely?’
I bite my lower lip, telling myself not to get involved; that it’s none of my business, really, and unmasking Dante would be the very worst thing I could choose to do right now. Then I catch sight of Bex, in her ‘bloodstained’ dress. I remember the knife sticking out of the turnip.
Zara’s right. This is all getting out of hand – and now it’s time to put a stop to it.
‘It’s Dante,’ I blurt out, unable to contain myself any longer. ‘Dante is the nephew. He’s the one who’s been speaking to WanderNest.’
There’s a painfully long drawn-out silence, then Izzie starts laughing.
‘Dante Romano?’ she says incredulously. ‘The Laird’s nephew? Have you been on Ian’s special brew, Rosie?’
I open my mouth to tell her what I know, but, before I can speak, the crowd around me parts, and Dante himself appears, his dark hair dishevelled, as if he’s been raking his hands through it.
‘What’s going on?’ he demands, looking from me to Izzie, and then up at the Laird, who’s still standing on the stairs, looking as bemused as everyone else. ‘Did someone say my name?’
‘Aye,’ says Izzie. ‘It was Rosie. She reckons you’re the Laird’s nephew. Have you been telling people you’re related to royalty again, Dante? Because I know your mother’s had to speak to you about that before.’
She glares at him sternly.
‘I was eight when I used to say that, Izzie,’ Dante replies, looking uncharacteristically flustered. ‘I haven’t said it for years now. And I’m not the Laird’s nephew, as you very well know.’
‘But . . . but Daniel heard you on the phone to Wander-Nest,’ I say tremulously, still sure my theory must be right, although I’m growing less certain with every moment that passes.
‘And there’s a photo of a man who looks just like you in the library.
He . . . he must be a relative of yours. I saw you looking at it earlier today.’
‘Aye, he is,’ Dante says, his eyes so narrow it’s a wonder he can see out of them.
‘He’s my great-great grandfather – or something like that, anyway.
My mum told me about the photo in that book; she’d seen it when she used to work here.
I was just curious about it, that’s all. It’s not a crime, is it?’
He folds his arms across his chest defensively.
‘So he is related to you?’ I reply, wondering why none of the people around me seem as surprised by this admission as I am. Can’t they see what it means? Can’t they see that Dante is . . .
‘Aye,’ he says again. ‘He’s related to me. He’s not related to the Laird, though.’
I suddenly realise I’ve lost the power of speech; and of breathing properly, it would seem, if the weird, light-headed feeling that’s creeping over me is anything to go by.
‘Look, the man in the photo was the fifth Laird’s valet,’ Dante says, looking a little bit annoyed to be having to admit this.
‘And his good friend, apparently. He wasn’t one of the family, he just worked here – like my mum did.
Like I do. It’s a family business, almost, running this place. Well, sort of.’
My mouth opens and closes uselessly.
This feels even worse than when we all briefly thought Bex had been stabbed.
‘Oh, and I have spoken to someone from WanderNest a few times,’ Dante adds, almost as an afterthought. ‘But just to take a message for the Laird’s nephew. Who isn’t me, by the way. I mean, obviously.’
He utters the last word in a tone so frosty I’m surprised I don’t freeze to death on the spot.
If ever there was a time for a real ghost to appear, this would be it.
Instead, Ian steps forward.
‘So, where is he, then?’ he says bluntly. ‘This nephew who wants to sell the castle to some chain who’ll just destroy the place, and make it the same as every other hotel they own. Or who is he, rather?’
The crowd quietens down, everyone straining to hear Dante’s answer.
‘Oh. Um, I’m not sure I should say,’ he begins, tugging uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt. ‘I said I wouldn’t. He’s—’
‘Here,’ says a familiar voice from just behind me. ‘I’m here.’
The room falls silent, the only sounds coming from the steady tick tick of the grandfather clock next to the reception desk, and the sharp click of Steve’s claws as he comes padding across the tiled floor at the sound of his master’s voice.
Like Stevie, I don’t even need to see him to recognise that voice.
I’ve only known it a few short days, but I’d already know it anywhere.
And that’s why I can’t bring myself to turn around just yet, even though, all around me, people are shuffling and straining to get a look at him; scandalised whispers breaking the stillness of the room as everyone nudges their closest neighbour, urging them to turn around and look at Hunter Stuart: the bawbag heir of Lord Glenmuir.