Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (11 page)

‘That’s
correct and you’re Mr Andrew Caplet. I remember meeting you after the fire.
Nice to see you again. Now, I want you to lie still while I take a look at you.
A nasty bang on the head, wasn’t it? I’m sure you’ll soon be on the mend.’

Flashing
a torch into my eyes, he asked loads of questions. I answered those I could but
he seemed to think I should know something about a fete, when all I wanted to
talk about was a beautiful woman. Apparently, I spent the afternoon and evening
under observation, though I slept through most of it when my headache allowed,
for they wouldn’t let me take anything for the pain. I was told I also
underwent a CT scan and that I cheered when Dr Finlay said it showed absolutely
nothing wrong with my brain that a couple of days of rest and quiet wouldn’t
cure. I asked him to let Mrs Goodfellow know.

Next
morning, still delicate, though feeling much better, I lay in a white bed
behind curtains, a pretty nurse with a sympathetic smile and a scent of soap, checking
up on me from time to time. At some point, with a clattering and a nauseating
smell of burned grease, my breakfast, charred bacon and leathery eggs, with
bread that had been toasted just enough to dry out, without browning, arrived.
I made an attempt at it but didn’t much fancy staying for lunch. However, Dr
Finlay, looking in, allayed my worries.

‘Good
morning,’ he said. ‘How are you today?’

‘Not
too bad, apart from a sore head and feeling a bit confused.’

‘That’s
perfectly normal after a minor head injury, though I expect it feels like a
major injury from your side. Tilt your head, please … good. You have a
magnificent goose egg on your forehead, or it would be magnificent if we hadn’t
put a couple of stitches in – they’ll drop out in a few days.’

Nodding,
I yawned. I couldn’t remember being stitched, which was good because I’d always
feared needles. The lump, beneath a sticking plaster, was very tender.

‘You’ll
probably notice that you tire easily in the next week or so. Listen to your
body and take plenty of rest. How’s your vision?’

‘It’s
… umm … fine now. It was all fuzzy yesterday, I think. Like my memory.’

‘Excellent.
And your speech patterns are normal. You were perseverating yesterday.’

The
blood rose to my cheeks. ‘Oh God, I wasn’t, was I? I’m ever so sorry, I didn’t
know what I was doing … Umm … What was I doing?’

‘Perseverating
– you had a tendency to repeat yourself – a classic symptom of a concussion.’

‘Oh,
is that all?’

‘Yes.
Well, Mr Caplet, in my opinion you’ll be fit enough to go home in a couple of
hours. Will there be anyone to look after you?’

I
nodded, cheered by the prospect of getting home for Sunday lunch, wondering
what the old girl was cooking, hoping there’d be plenty for me.

‘Excellent.
Remember, plenty of rest and quiet and don’t go back to work for at least five
days.’

I
smiled, approving Dr Finlay’s instructions, the sort I could agree to follow
without hesitation or guilt. His bleeper sounding, he left me to doze.

Just
after twelve o’clock, Hobbes stomped into the ward, his head appearing round
the curtain. ‘The hospital called to say you can come home. How are you?’

‘Much
better, but the doctor says I need rest and quiet.’ I was hoping to influence
his driving.

I
needn’t have worried. On leaving the hospital, I found he hadn’t come in the
car, instead bringing Dregs and the little cart, to which he’d fitted a
three-legged stool from the kitchen. Dregs, taking it all in his stride as I
sat down, set off, trotting by Hobbes’s side. At first, I squirmed with
embarrassment, though few people were out and about in town, but after a while,
to my amazement, I began to enjoy the ride, feeling safe and comfortable, if
eccentric. The town glistened with the sprinklings of an overnight downpour,
the streets steaming under the sun’s power.

‘It’s
a fine cart,’ I said.

Hobbes
agreed. ‘It is. If you’d hung around a little longer yesterday, you’d have seen
him giving rides round the fete in it. The children loved him and he raised
more money than any other attraction, though the lass might have matched him if
she hadn’t run out of ginger beer.’

‘She
makes good stuff,’ I said. ‘I wish I’d stuck to it. That cider was lethal.’

Hobbes
chuckled. ‘It nearly was, wasn’t it? They’re talking about renaming it “Dozy
Headbanger” in your memory.’

I
grimaced. ‘How did you get on in the flower show? Did you win?’

He
shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, though they awarded me a certificate for the
most original use of delphiniums, which was nice of them.’

‘Shame.
Umm … by the way, have there been any more big cat sightings?’

‘Not
as such, but a bird watcher reported a large paw-print in Loop Woods. I took
Dregs up to have a look this morning but, unfortunately, some lads had been
motor biking and everything was churned up. There were no signs of cats and the
whole place stank of two-stroke.’

‘If
there really was a big cat on the loose, would they get someone to shoot it?’

‘Not
if I had my way,’ said Hobbes.

‘What
would you do?’

‘Catch
it.’

‘How?’

‘With
stealth, cunning and a big sack.’

‘Then
what?’

‘Find
it somewhere to live where it can’t be hurt by anyone and where it can’t hurt
the public.’

His answer came as some relief, for I’d got
it into my head that, if he found one, and caught it, he’d bring it home.
Having a panther in the house would not be good for my state of mind,
especially when I needed to rest.

All
went well until, reaching Blackdog Street, Hobbes, pulling the keys from his
pocket, strode up the steps to the front door. Dregs, forgetting what he was
doing, bounded after him. The cart’s wheels bounced and skipped and, though I
grasped the stool with desperate hands, I tipped out backwards with a yelp,
bracing myself for a heavy fall. I never hit the floor. Hobbes, diving full
length down the steps, caught me.

‘Sorry,’
he said, standing up, setting me down. ‘That wasn’t much of a start to your
course of peace and rest. Are you alright?’

‘I’m
alright, but what about you?’

The
knees of his baggy, old trousers were torn and his elbows, poking through the
sleeves of his tweed jacket, were dripping blood.

‘I’m
fine,’ he said. ‘The odd scrape won’t do me any harm. Mind you, I’ll need to
get these clothes fixed.’

Springing
back up the steps, he opened the door and let us in. A delicious scent of
roasting meat welcomed us.

‘It’s
good to be home,’ I said, with some difficulty for my mouth was flooding.

‘Good,’
said Hobbes, ‘and now you need to take yourself up to bed.’

‘But
I’m alright … and hungry.’

‘Doctor’s
orders. Up you go. And quickly.’

Arguing
with Hobbes never worked, so I went up to my room, undressed, climbed into bed
and hoped the old girl wouldn’t forget me. The next thing I knew, I’d woken up.
From the light outside, the emptiness of my stomach, I guessed it was late
afternoon. As I stretched and sat up, still a little weak, I became aware of
soft breathing. A little man was sitting cross-legged on a stool in the window,
sewing. He had a big head and a long, thin nose, supporting a pair of half-moon
glasses. Looking up, he grinned and nodded.

‘Good
afternoon,’ he said, the guttural tone of his voice suggesting he was foreign. ‘I
am not, I hope, disturbing you?’

‘No.’

‘That
is good.’

As
he returned to his sewing, I closed my eyes, convinced I was dreaming, but when
I looked again he was still there.

‘Who
are you?’

‘I
am the tailor, sir.’

‘What
are you doing in my room?’

‘Stitching
a rent in your trousers,’ he said, holding them up with long, spindly fingers. ‘You
tore them, so I am told, at the fete.’

‘Did
I? Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

I
must have dropped off again because the light was fading when my eyes opened.
As I stretched and sat up, I became aware of soft breathing.

‘Hello,
dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, folding my chinos, hanging them in the wardrobe. ‘Did
you sleep well? Would you like something to eat?’

‘Yes
to both questions. What time is it?’

‘Half-past
nine. Would you like a cold beef sandwich?’

‘I’d
love one … Actually, I’d love some. I’m starving. With mustard would be nice.’

‘Shall
I bring them up here?’

‘No,
I’ll come down.’

She
left my room and a few minutes later, still in my pyjamas, I followed her into
the kitchen.

She
cut a freshly baked loaf into mouth-watering slices, spreading them with
mustard, piling on the beef.

‘Where’s
Hobbes?’ I asked, detecting no signs of his presence; I could usually tell if
he was in, even if he was being quiet.

‘He’s
out with Dregs. He took Milord home and went to investigate another dead sheep.’

‘Right,’
I said. ‘Umm … Milord?’

‘The
tailor. He came round to fix the old fellow’s clothes and I got him to stitch
the tear in your trousers that you made when you fell on the railings.’

‘I
fell on some railings?’

‘After
you’d put your head through the cider counter. Here you are.’

Handing
me a plate of sandwiches, she poured me out a mug of tea. I sat at the table, chewing
in confusion, with no memory of railings, then or ever. After I’d defeated the
worst of the hunger, a thought occurred.

‘Is
he a lord, then – the tailor?’

‘No,
dear, whatever gave you that idea?’

‘You
called him Milord, didn’t you?’

‘It’s
his name: Milord Schmidt.’

‘That’s
a strange name.’

‘A
strange name for a strange fellow, but his given name was Villy; he changed it
when he settled here after the war, thinking it would impress people.’

‘Did
it?’

‘Not
really, dear. Still, he is a most excellent tailor and is always happy to look
after the old fellow’s clothes. They come in for a lot of wear and tear. He’s
especially good with trousers and zips – the old fellow calls him the Milord of
the Flies. Not to his face, though: he’s very highly strung.’

I
nodded. Despite my rest and the wonderful sandwiches, my brain did not feel up
to a long conversation with Mrs G. Still, another thought occurred.

‘Did
you say there was another dead sheep?’

‘Yes,
dear, out on a farm off the Pigton Road.’

‘Do
you know any details?’

‘Sorry,
you’ll have to wait till he gets back.’

As
I finished my sandwiches and tea, to my astonishment, I felt sleepy again and having
yawned and stumbled upstairs, I slept until late the next morning. By then, I
felt more or less better, though the previous couple of days remained hazy. It
was almost like trying to remember dreams, when all that remained were flimsy,
unconnected threads.

I
washed and dressed, taking my time. On going downstairs, I found I was alone,
which was fine; I needed peace and quiet. Having made myself tea and toast with
marmalade, I sat at the kitchen table, munching and slurping with great
pleasure, until, finishing, I picked up the
Bugle
from the table. The
headline, ‘Another Dead Sheep’, was printed above a censored photo of the dear
departed animal, whose throat, according to the article, had been torn out and
who had been disembowelled. Local resident, Mr Robert Nibblet (42), had apparently
stumbled across the gory remains when returning from an evening out. It took a
second or two to register Skeleton Bob’s real name and to realise he’d let the
cat out of the bag, so to speak, having blabbed about his sightings. I couldn’t
blame him for wanting his moment.

‘There
have been,’ the article continued, ‘hundreds of big cat sightings across the
country over the last few years. While some may dismiss them as fantasies, the
evidence of this, a second mutilated sheep, suggests a truly terrifying wild
beast may be at large in the vicinity of Loop Woods.’

I
sniggered, reckoning he’d hit the nail on the head; Hobbes fitted the
description perfectly, though I doubted he’d really dismember a sheep, unless
he was extremely hungry and then he’d make sure to pay for it. However, if the
victim had been Henry Bishop, I’d have had few doubts as to the perpetrator.

I
flicked through a few more pages, finding only a short piece, about the music
festival, of interest. It said that, although Tiny Tim Jones had, reluctantly,
been forced to drop out because a court appearance had not gone according to
plan, the organisers had managed to fill the gap with the Famous Fenderton
Fiddle Fellows, or 4F to their fans. I was amazed they had any fans, having
seen them once, when they’d played a New Year’s dance in the Corn Hall, playing
so atrociously that they’d cleared the place well before midnight. As most of
the punters didn’t have press cards like I did but had paid thirty pounds a
head to get in, the consensus was that they’d suffered robbery with violins and
the band had to be smuggled out the back to prevent a riot.