Chapter 1: The Scream! · KDP Publishing

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Chapter 1: The Scream!

Chapter One: The Scream!

Feedback welcome. To give you a snippet of some context.

1920s England. Fiction British Mystery for Children ages 8-12. Modeled after a good old fashioned Agatha Christie novel.

The scream hit the chandelier first.

Then came the crash.

A tea trolley going over sounds nothing like you'd expect. Not delicate. A cannon shot of rattling silver, shattering china, and the wet heavy thud of something substantial hitting marble. Then the squelch. Then the smell.

Then Matilda Gristlewick's voice, still going:

"Something soiled me!"

The grand lobby of The Whiffshire Hotel fell silent.

Matilda lay sprawled on the carpet in an explosion of quilted satin, crushed pastries, and personal humiliation. One leg was draped over the fallen tea trolley. A strange, steaming blob quivered near her shoulder.

It smelled unforgivable.

Jimmy Butterwhisk stood three feet away, holding a pudding spoon. ThreadBear was tucked under his other arm, saying nothing, as usual. Though Jimmy suspected he knew more than he was letting on.

Jimmy hadn't moved. Partly because his legs had stopped working. Partly because he was already thinking.

The smell was wrong. Underneath the chocolate, something sharp and chemical that didn't belong in a kitchen or a lobby or anywhere a person might reasonably expect to stand on a Tuesday evening.

He filed it away.

"IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS?!" Matilda shrieked, pointing a trembling gloved finger at the rug. "Did you… did you do a jobby in the lobby?"

She pointed at Jimmy.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Gags followed.

"It's pudding!" Jimmy said. "Honest pudding! No poop! ThreadBear was there. He knows."

ThreadBear offered no testimony. His one good button eye stared straight ahead, impartial as ever.

But it was too late.

From the hallway, Chef Alberto Farfale emerged — face pale, hand still dusted with cocoa. He saw the pudding. He saw Matilda. He saw Jimmy.

The chef's eyes didn't go to Matilda first. They went to the floor near the overturned bowl. Then to the blob. Then to the area around the tea trolley.

He was looking for something. Not someone.

Then he gasped. Then he lied.

"Mamma Mia! What kind of animal would leave a jobby on such fine carpet?!"

"THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING!" Matilda sobbed. "And I landed on it! I'm soiled! Ruined! What will Undergarment Quarterly say?!"

"You know it's pudding!" Jimmy said. "You made it! I saw you—"

"Pudding?" Chef Farfale clutched his chest. "I make no such thing! I make soufflés! Tea cakes! But that—" he pointed at the blob— "that is not my work!"

"You put something in it!" Jimmy said. "That's why it smells wrong. There's something underneath the chocolate."

Nobody listened. Nobody ever did.

"Potion in it?!" Matilda shrieked. "I ingested it through my nostrils! I'm contaminated! I'm suing!"

"I didn't— yes, I nicked it, but—"

"YOU STOLE A JOBBY?!"

"No! A pudding! A— oh, forget it!"

Silence.

Only the pudding moved, one slow and final jiggle.

The silence stretched. Even Matilda paused, mid-outrage.

Because the smell shifted.

Just for a moment — the sharp chemical note softened, and what rose in its place was almost beautiful. Floral. Something between jasmine and orange blossom, drifting upward from the cooling blob.

Across the lobby, a woman's fan stopped moving.

Lady Amethyst Whisper stood perfectly still. She wasn't recoiling. She wasn't covering her nose. Her chin had lifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, the way a person's does when they catch a scent they weren't expecting to find here, in this place, at this hour.

Her expression wasn't disgust. It was curiosity.

Jimmy filed it away: the smell that didn't belong, and the woman whose face had changed — not badly around it, but well.

Then the moment passed. The foul smell returned. The crowd erupted.

Chef Farfale's eyes swept the floor one final time. Then, quietly, under his breath:

"Where is that blasted spoon…"

Not — what a disaster. Not — poor Matilda.

The spoon.

Jimmy looked at the floor. The large serving spoon — the kind used for puddings — was nowhere. Not near the bowl. Not under the trolley. Not in the mess on the carpet.

Gone.

Footsteps thundered from every hallway. Guests poured into the lobby in silk wraps, monocles, and half-buttoned dressing gowns.

"What happened?!" Lord Derwood Dapperly bellowed, cravat askew.

"Are you okay?" Lady Amethyst Whisper's voice was steady now. Composed. As if nothing had crossed her face a moment ago.

"I slipped on it! I reek of shame and defilement!" Matilda cried.

"Don't breathe too deeply!" hissed Dame Hardslap Underbottom, pinching her nostrils with lace gloves. "It might be contagious."

Lord Dapperly leaned in and squinted. "Is that… is that moving?"

"It jiggled!" whispered a dowager.

"No one's helping me?" Matilda barked. "I'm a lady of considerable undergarment influence!"

Chef Farfale placed a heavy hand on Jimmy's shoulder. "It's okay, bambino. Accidents happen."

A horrified gasp moved through the crowd.

"Oh no," Lady Fortuna moaned. "The boy soiled himself mid-tea!"

Jimmy did the only sensible thing. He bolted into the shadows, ThreadBear bouncing under his arm.

"Jimmy — I believe you!" Maddie Underbottom shouted after him.

In the corridor, Jimmy pressed his eye to the crack of light from the kitchen. Chef Farfale moved fast — past the stoves, past the prep counter, straight to the spice rack. His hand went to the bottom drawer.

He pulled out a small glass vial. Empty now, or nearly. In the lamplight, the inside of the glass held the faint amber stain of something used and almost entirely gone.

The chef held it a moment, very still. Then pressed a label to the glass with trembling fingers and slid it into his apron pocket.

Jimmy didn't see what the label said.

But he had seen the vial. He had seen the shaking hands. And he had seen a chef who wasn't worried about the mess, or Matilda, or the boy everyone was blaming.

He was worried about a spoon that wasn't there anymore.

Jimmy pressed his back against the corridor wall, ThreadBear tight under his arm, notebook already open.

The investigation had officially begun.

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