Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (12 page)

I
cleared up my breakfast things, wondering what to do with myself until
lunchtime, for, though I was feeling so much better, I was too lethargic to go
anywhere.

The
doorbell ringing, I walked to the front door and opened it.

The
beautiful lady was standing at the top of the steps.

‘Hello,
Andy,’ she said, smiling.

The
unexpected apparition made my jaw drop, my legs lose rigidity, my heart pound,
as I struggled for breath.

‘Are
you alright?’ she asked.

Dancing
black spots got in the way of the lovely vision as, head spinning, I made an
idiot noise, feeling as if I’d fallen back into dreams, feeling the touch of her
cool, soft hand on my wrist, smelling her warm, heady perfume, as she guided me
to the sofa and sat me down. I remained there, confused, amazed, almost
fainting, until she pressed a glass of water into my hand. When I bent forward
to take a sip, sweat, dripping from my nose, rippled the surface.

How
could she be in Hobbes’s sitting room?

‘I
thought,’ she said, ‘that I’d come round to see how you’re getting on. You had
me worried at the fete but I bumped into Mrs Goodfellow in town and she said
you were much better. I can see you’re still poorly, though.’

‘I
… umm,’ I mumbled.

‘Would
you like more water?’

‘Eh?’

‘More
water?’

I
shook my head. ‘How did you … I mean … what do you want?’ I felt I was not at
my articulate best.

‘Oh,
sorry,’ she said in her soft purr, a slight blush, making her even more
striking, ‘you probably won’t remember me. We met briefly at the Wildlife Park?
And at the fete?’

‘Umm
… fete … yes.’ Of course I remembered her. It would take more than a mere brain
trauma to drive her from my mind. Unfortunately, memory also threw up an image
of what I’d done on her shoes.

‘I’m
sorry,’ we said together and paused.

‘Go
ahead,’ she said after a long few seconds.

‘Umm
… I’m sorry I was … umm … sick on your shoes. I hope you managed to clean them
alright?’ At the back of my mind a seed of worry was growing: had she come for
compensation? Why else would she want to see me?

‘Don’t
worry about those old things. You couldn’t help it. I hope you are feeling
better now. I’ve never seen anyone knocked out before and you looked so pale
and ill.’

I
nodded and, the conversation halting, she smiled again. Her teeth were white
and regular. Mrs Goodfellow, I thought, would covet them.

‘Would
you like a cup of tea or coffee or something?’ I asked, trying to stop the
silence growing uncomfortable. ‘Or ginger beer? It’s home-made.’

‘A
cup of tea would be lovely.’

Dazed,
I walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She
had
come to see me!
My sense of confusion lifting, I grinned like a loon, performing an idiot
arm-waving dance around the stove.

‘No
sugar, please, Andy,’ she said, standing in the kitchen doorway, her eyebrows
arched in amusement.

Feeling
a blush flooding my cheeks, I made as if I’d been swatting a fly.

‘Missed,’
I said. ‘Damn these bluebottles!’

I
doubted my acting was very convincing, yet she smiled while I tried to stop
staring at her like a fixated owl.

‘You
called me Andy,’ I said. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Mrs
Goodfellow told me. We had a little chat while we were waiting for the
ambulance. Oh, I’m sorry but I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Violet. Violet
King.’

‘Oh,
right. You must be related to Felix King. He helped me out when I had a spot of
bother in town. Of course, I didn’t know who he was until I saw him in the
Bugle
.’

‘Felix,’
she said, with a hint of grimace, ‘is my big brother.’

‘He
seems very nice.’

‘He
is. Most of the time. At least, when he’s not working.’

The
kettle whistling, I made tea and carried it through to the sitting room. She
sat down on the sofa and, so that I wouldn’t appear too pushy, I pulled up one
of Hobbes’s old oak chairs.

‘Would
you like a biscuit?’ I asked before sitting.

‘No,
thank you.’

‘It’s
very nice of you to call round and see me. I’m feeling very much better now.’

‘That’s
good … Andy?’

‘Yes?’

Her
handbag suddenly chiming, she pulled out a mobile, answering it, with an
apologetic smile. ‘Hi Felix … When was that? Oh … That’s unfortunate. Can’t it
wait?’ She sighed. ‘Right, I’ll go straight round and sort them out … OK … bye.’

She
rose to her feet. ‘I’m ever so sorry, but I must go. It’s business; I work with
Felix.’

‘What
about your cup of tea?’

‘Sorry.’
Standing up, she walked towards the front door, stopped and turned round. ‘Look,
I’m sort of new to the area and I hardly know anyone. I wondered if you’d mind
having dinner with me some time? Or lunch?’

‘Umm,’
I said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh.
If you don’t want to, I understand.’

‘No.
It’s not that … I wouldn’t mind … I’d love to … only, well, I’m a bit short of
money at the moment.’

‘That’s
OK. I can pay – if you don’t mind.’

‘Of
course not. I’d love to have dinner with you … or lunch … or breakfast, if it
comes to that.’

As
she raised her eyebrows, another blush burned my cheeks.

‘Sorry,
I didn’t mean to imply I want to spend the night with you, I just meant I’d
love to go out with you at any time that’s convenient.’ I had a feeling my response
hadn’t come out right. ‘Umm … it’s not that I don’t want to go to bed … umm … I
mean I …. ’

I
wished I could rewind and start again.

To
my amazement, she laughed. ‘When you’re in a hole, it’s best to stop digging. I’ll
tell you what, how about if I pick you up tomorrow evening at eight?’

‘That
would be great.’

‘You
can decide where we go; I don’t really know any places round here. Bye, Andy.’

‘Bye.’

She
walked away, closing the door behind her. Shortly afterwards, hearing a car’s
engine, I peeked out the window, watching as she drove away in a red,
open-topped Lotus.

Sitting
down, I poured myself a cup of tea and held it, watching it grow cold, my brain,
having gone into overload, unable to cope with frivolities. I could hardly
believe Violet King wanted to take Andy Caplet out to dinner. No one had ever
done anything like that before. Might it be possible, I thought, that my
concussion was causing hallucinations? Had the last few minutes all been a
wonderful dream? Yet, I could still feel where she’d placed her hand on my
wrist, still smell her perfume in the air.

‘Wow,’
I said at last, putting my mug down on the coffee table, standing up.

Mrs
Goodfellow, arriving home a few minutes later, didn’t seem surprised to see me
dancing and emitting whoops of amazement and joy.

‘Hello,
dear, how’s your head?’

‘It’s
wonderful.’

Waltzing
towards her, I hugged her, taking care to be gentle, for she looked all skin
and bone, fragile as a dried twig, yet she’d once knocked me out with a single
kick, having mistaken me for a ninja.

‘I
like it when you smile, dear,’ she said, staring up at my mouth, ‘you’ve got
lovely teeth.’

‘Not
as lovely as hers,’ I replied.

‘Hers?’

‘Violet
King’s. She came to see me and is going to pick me up and take me out for
dinner tomorrow. She’s lovely.’

‘Ah,
the charming young lady from the fete, the one with beautiful teeth? Well, if
she’s coming round again, I’ll have to tidy up a bit after I’ve put the
shopping away. I’d better get cracking.’

In
the circumstances, I felt I should show willing. ‘How can I help?’

‘By
keeping out of my way. You still need your rest, dear.’

Considering
this a most satisfactory answer, I took myself upstairs for a lie down, ensuring
I couldn’t overdo things. I had not yet come to terms with the idea that
Violet, what a lovely name, wanted to take me out for dinner and a cynical part
of my brain kept suggesting that she was just playing a cruel joke. Awful
thoughts stampeded through my mind. What if she never turned up, leaving me
waiting on the doorstep? What if she took me to a swanky foreign restaurant and,
unable to understand the menu, I ordered a dish of raw liver … or something
worse? What if I chose somewhere that wasn’t good enough and she walked out on
me? My fears, overwhelming the euphoria, I sat on the bed, chewing my
fingernails, fretting until Hobbes returned and Mrs G called me for lunch.
Pulling myself together, I went downstairs.

The
sitting room, smelling of bleach and polish, everything that could gleam gleaming,
I doubted even the tiniest speck of dust had survived the onslaught, though the
room had been spotless even before. I made my way through to the kitchen, where
Hobbes was waiting at the table. When he’d said grace, Mrs Goodfellow served a
wonderful mixed salad with the remains of yesterday’s roast beef before
vanishing. In all the months I’d been living there, I’d yet to see her eat
anything, other than a taste to ensure whatever she was cooking was up to
scratch.

I
ate my lunch with great relish, something she made from onions, tomatoes and spices,
something that, had she ever decided to sell it, would have made her a fortune,
though I doubted she’d know what to do with the money. So far as I could see,
she was happy looking after Hobbes, teaching Kung Fu and collecting teeth.

Hobbes,
finishing, dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘I hear you’ve got a date tomorrow
evening.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good
for you, but I advise taking it easy on the alcohol. I must warn you, though;
you’ll miss a vindaloo.’

Normally
that would have upset me for Mrs G made the most wonderful, aromatic, perfectly-spiced
curries, but the prospect of being with Violet overcame everything else. Still,
I couldn’t pretend I didn’t have a lingering regret.

‘Anyway,’
said Hobbes, ‘there’s been another big cat sighting, this morning. This one made
the curate come off his motorbike.’

‘Is
he alright?’ Kevin Godley, Kev the Rev, having helped me out on a number of
occasions, I almost regarded him as a friend.

‘He’s
fine, though his bike’s a write-off. He says a big cat with a pheasant in its
mouth ran from Loop Woods, straight across the road. He swerved, trying to miss
it, but thinks there may have been an impact before he came off. By the time he’d
stopped skidding and had climbed from a ditch, it had vanished.’

‘So
does that solve the mystery of the vanishing pheasants?’

‘Possibly,
though the cat would have to enjoy a fantastically healthy appetite to have
eaten dozens of the birds in a matter of a few weeks.’

‘Maybe,’
I said, ‘but, when I was a boy, our cat, Whisky, was forever bringing birds home.
They were mostly sparrows and finches, but once he came back with a duck. The
thing is, though he loved to hunt, he hardly ever ate them; he was too well fed.’

‘That’s
an interesting thought,’ said Hobbes. ‘Are you suggesting the big cat is
someone’s pet? It’s certainly a possibility. Perhaps someone lets it out at
night, like a normal house cat. That could explain why it’s not been found and why
the pheasants keep vanishing. You might be onto something, well done.’

‘Thanks,’
I said, pleased, since he didn’t often dish out compliments and their rarity gave
them added value. ‘Whisky used to torment the birds before killing them. Once,
when I’d managed to get one away from him, Father made me give it back. He said
it was natural for cats to play with their prey.’

‘He’s
right,’ said Hobbes, ‘but pet cats aren’t natural.’

‘That’s
what I thought, so I tried to release them whenever I could, which wasn’t easy,
since Whisky soon realised what I was up to and, if he saw me sneaking up when
he’d got a bird, he’d scarper. I spent many hours chasing him round the
neighbours’ gardens.’

Hobbes
laughed. ‘I suspect it might prove even more difficult to take a pheasant from
a panther.’

‘I
guess so. But what about the dead sheep?’

‘There’s really no more information than
appeared in the
Bugle
. By the time I got to the last killing, the rest
of the flock had trampled the area, leaving no scent or trail. It’s bad enough
that sheep have been killed, and that some of the farmers are getting angry,
but what if it attacked a member of the public? It’s worrying.’

We
went through to the sitting room, where Mrs Goodfellow brought us tea. I’d just
taken my first sip when I noticed Hobbes stare at something and frown. I couldn’t
see why, the room looking the same as always, if possibly a little shinier.
Then I noticed she’d placed her new skull on the mantelpiece as a rather
gruesome centrepiece.