Pure Dead Wicked (6 page)

Quid Pro Quo

T
wo weeks dragged slowly by. The Strega-Borgia hotel bill swelled into an alarming five-figure sum, much to the dismay of Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia. Over breakfast, Signor Strega-Borgia waded his way through a sheaf of slips, commenting bitterly on each one as around him the family tried to eat breakfast as inexpensively as possible.

“How on earth did we manage to run up a phone bill for four hundred and eighty-three pounds ninety-six?” Signor Strega-Borgia waved the offending item at his wife, who wisely declined to answer.

Titus, recalling his hours spent on the Internet, failed to quell the blush advancing across his cheeks.

“We've only been here for sixteen days,” moaned Signor Strega-Borgia to the array of bent heads across the table. “Look at this—laundry facilities: two hundred and ninety-five pounds plus VAT—we could
buy
a washing machine for less. . . . And here—room service: eight hundred and thirty-seven pounds, forty-two—that's
ludicrous
!”

Signora Strega-Borgia looked up from her toast. “That'll be the food for the beasts, darling—”

“What have they been eating, for heaven's sake? Beluga caviar? Lobster thermidor? Wild boar and truffles?”

Signora Strega-Borgia ignored the interruptions. “Since they're not allowed in the dining room anymore, the poor dears do need their creature comforts.”

“SUNDRIES!” bawled Signor Strega-Borgia, spotting another attempt to plunder the family's diminishing finances. “Look—one linen tablecloth: three hundred and ninety pounds; ten linen napkins: a hundred and fifty pounds; two bread baskets: fifteen pounds forty; damage to table: two hundred and ninety-three pounds—”

“Good morning. Is everything in order?”

Signor Strega-Borgia started guiltily. The hotel manageress, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, had appeared as if on oiled wheels beside the table and was fixing upon the family a smile that was remarkable only for its lack of sincerity. Her hooded eyes told a different story altogether.

Pandora's cereal spoon clattered into her bowl, bounced out across the tablecloth, and catapulted its milk-sodden contents straight onto the manageress's left shoe. Pandora gave a small squeak of dismay, inwardly logging another item onto the day's bill—one pink ostrich-skin shoe: two hundred pounds. She gritted her teeth and decided not to apologize—the ghastly woman was a walking advertisement for humanity's history of cruelty to animals: her shirt was the product of overworked silkworms, her rabbit's-foot brooch a gross reminder that somewhere out there was a bunny amputee limping across the heather, and her suede skirt had cost some innocent sheep dear. Why, then, Pandora wondered, was Dad being so
chummy
with her? She clenched her fists as a loud peal of laughter rang out across the dining room.

“Oh, Luciano,” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell shrieked, “you're such a scream!”

“Indeed,”
muttered Signora Strega-Borgia, raising her coffee cup and her eyebrows in tandem. “Could I have some more coffee,
Mrs
. Fforbes-Campbell?”

Uh-oh, thought Pandora, registering the chill in her mother's voice.

“Certainly, Signora,” said the manageress. “I'll just make some fresh . . . myself, I never drink the stuff—so bad for the complexion.”

One all, thought Pandora, dreading what she knew from experience was to come.

“Personally,” said Signora Strega-Borgia to no one in particular, “I rely on our impeccable genetic heritage to look after my complexion.” She smiled to herself and idly smoothed a stray hair back into place, looking up to deliver the final thrust straight between Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell's eyes. “You will discover in the fullness of time that good breeding
always
wins hands down over mere diet and artifice.”

Game, set, and match, thought Pandora, restraining a desire to stand on the tabletop and cheer.

Apparently embarrassed by this catty interchange, Mrs. McLachlan had taken refuge behind her powder compact, peering into its oval mirror and tutting as she made ineffectual little dabs at her nose with a tiny sugar-pink puff. Latch sighed and buttered another slice of toast. Personally, he thought, Flora McLachlan had no need for such lily-gilding. The boss was absolutely right: good genes knocked spots off paint and powder. . . .

Something in the nanny's mirror had displeased her, though—displeased her mightily—for Mrs. McLachlan snapped her compact shut, hurled it into her handbag, and stood up abruptly, shooting Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell the look that Latch had privately defined as “The Hairy Eyeball.” She hoisted Damp out of her high chair, scrubbed porridge off the baby's cheek with a napkin, and turned to Signora Strega-Borgia. “If you have no objections, madam, I thought I would take the girls into the village for a spot of Christmas shopping.”

“Good idea,” agreed Signora Strega-Borgia, “and Titus . . . ?”

“Pandora, dear, run and fetch your coat and we'll meet you at the front door.” Mrs. McLachlan smiled at Titus. “I haven't asked you to join us because I know you've done your shopping already.”

“I did mine online,” Titus said with unbearable smugness. “So much easier. Avoid the crush and rush. No parcels to carry. No old ladies spearing you with their umbrellas. No grumpy crowds on the streets, no cheesy Santas in grotty grottoes. . . .”

Vaguely comprehending that her favorite icon was being unjustly slandered, Damp gave a small squeak.

“No, dear,” agreed Mrs. McLachlan. “Though I hardly think downtown Auchenlochtermuchty can compete with the horrors of Christmas shopping on Oxford Street, but I'm sure that you're right.” Clutching her handbag, Mrs. McLachlan bore Damp off upstairs to dress her for the excursion.

On their way through the hotel grounds ten minutes later, Mrs. McLachlan and Pandora saw Latch taking the beasts out for their morning exercise. Tock bolted across the vast manicured lawn, his webbed claws leaving a trail of prints on the white frosted grass. The crocodile halted under a skeletal oak and began to dig frenetically with all four paws. Silver frost turned to green grass and then to dark earth as Tock clawed downward.

Assuming incorrectly that this was standard procedure for reptiles about to off-load the previous night's dinner, Mrs. McLachlan's party strolled on past the earthworks. They failed to grasp the significance of the black armband tied round one of Tock's front legs. By the time they reached the main road, they were too far away to notice Tock pause in his labors, reverently place a small brown leathery object in the recently dug hole, and then begin to fill it back in again.

 

Auchenlochtermuchty was not given to extravagant flights of Christmas decorations. Strung across the main street were some rather haphazardly spaced strings of colored lightbulbs, and in the window of the hardware store, a tatty sign blinked a myopic greeting of
M Y C RI TMAS
. Each of the four banks had posters displayed in their windows encouraging passersby to
MAKE THIS CHRISTMAS ONE TO REMEMBER
, if only for the level of debt incurred. The mini-market demonstrated that the rogue apostrophe was alive and well in Auchenlochtermuchty, with banners offering
FREE
-
RANGE TURKEY
'
S
,
FINE WINE
'
S
, and, oddly,
FRESH ASPARAGU
'
S
.

And a Merry Christma's to you, too, thought Pandora, pushing open the door of the shop in order to admit Mrs. McLachlan and Damp in her stroller.

Two hours later, they had finished. The parcel tray on the stroller sagged under the weight of stripey carrier bags from the mini-market and the packages from the hardware shop. Mrs. McLachlan decided that lunch was overdue and led her charges into the lounge bar of the Quid's Inn. They settled in a battered leather snug and, after a brief consultation, ordered two chickens with fries and a bowl of tomato soup for Damp. The baby had fallen asleep and now lay sprawled across her stroller, pink-cheeked and snoring faintly. Mrs. McLachlan and Pandora happily examined their purchases, comparing notes on the suitability or otherwise of their various gifts.

“What on earth is that thing?” Mrs. McLachlan held a tiny bundle of string and twigs up to the light, turning it around, trying to work out what it might be for.

“The man in the hardware store said that it was a spider ladder. Here—let me.” Pandora unfolded the bundle, which did, indeed, reveal itself to be a miniature ladder, complete with tiny wooden rungs. “I thought Tarantella might find it useful for hoisting herself out of baths. I couldn't find anything for Tock, though, could you?”

Mrs. McLachlan dug deep in a stripey carrier bag and produced a trio of plastic bath ducks.

“Perfect!” said Pandora, unwrapping one of her brown-paper packages. “And look what I found for Knot.”

Mrs. McLachlan peered at the bottle in Pandora's hands. “‘Organic hair detangling conditioner,' ” she read. “What a good idea—that yeti's fur defies every hairbrush ever in-vented. . . . What's that, dear?”

“It's a ‘Handy Motorist's Fire Extinguisher,'” said Pandora, reading the product label. “‘For boat or caravan use,' ” she quoted, adding, “Also handy in expensive hotels for extinguishing tablecloths.”

“That'll be for Ffup, I take it,” said Mrs. McLachlan. “Oh, look, here comes our lunch.”

They repacked their purchases and sat back in their seats while a waitress slid two laden platefuls of chicken and fries onto the table. “Salt 'n' sauce? Ketchup? Vinegar? Mayonnaise?” she inquired.

“Yes, please,” said Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan in unison.

The waitress disappeared and returned immediately with all five condiments, a pile of paper napkins, and a bowl of tomato soup for Damp.

“This is so much nicer than the hotel,” said Pandora through a mouthful of fries. “I really don't like that Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell and I know she doesn't like us much.”

Mrs. McLachlan stopped chewing and looked Pandora straight in the eye. “On the contrary, dear,” she said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin, “Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell is
unusually
fond of your father.”

“Yeuchhh,” said Pandora. “She's way too old for him, and besides, he's
married
. To Mum.”

“Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell is also married,” said Mrs. McLachlan, “but she's not the kind of woman to let a little thing like wedding vows stand in her way. Mark my words, dear, that woman is
trouble
. She intends to do her level best—” Mrs. McLachlan suddenly stopped in mid-prediction, conscious that she'd said far too much already. Bending her head, she applied herself to her plate as if her life depended on it.

“How come you know so much about her?” Pandora's brows knitted themselves into paired question marks. “Can you read minds or something?”

“Mmm . . .” Mrs. McLachlan sought refuge in a cloud of vagueness, hoping that Pandora would drop the subject.

This was not to be. “Come on, Mrs. McLachlan, prove it,” challenged Pandora. She put her cutlery down on her plate, closed her eyes, and concentrated. “Right, I'm thinking about something now—if you can really read minds, then tell me what's in mine.”

“Pandora, stop being silly—your lunch is getting cold.”

“I'm
concentrating,
” said Pandora. “Surely that makes it easier for you.”

“Don't be daft, dear. . . .”

Conscious that Mrs. McLachlan was weakening, Pandora smiled. Her eyes were still tightly shut.

“Oh, very
well,
” Mrs. McLachlan sighed, pulling out her powder compact from her handbag, “but you must keep your eyes closed.” She lifted the compact's lid and peered inside.

Black as pitch, the tiny mirror began to undergo a subtle transformation. Its surface bubbled like boiling toffee, turning dark brown, then bronze, and finally clearing to a beautiful transparent gold. Below the mirror, the face powder swirled as if there were a hidden undertow running below its surface. At the very instant an image formed in the mirror, the face powder halted in its tidal motion and threw up the words:

WHAT A PIG YOU ARE, CHILD

Mrs. McLachlan stifled a laugh as she realized that this referred to the mirrored image of Pandora eating a vast slab of Banoffee Pie, the current dessert on the Quid's Inn lunchtime menu. She looked up and found Pandora staring at her.

“I peeked,” Pandora confessed. “Sorry, I just couldn't resist. So: what was I thinking about and, more importantly, what is that in your hands? Is this what you meant when you wouldn't tell me your secret the day Mum Band-Aided the roof?”

Mrs. McLachlan rolled her eyes in despair. Glancing in her compact before she closed its lid, she caught a glimpse of a Pandora-shaped cat with all four paws in the air, and written in the powder was the observation: