Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (14 page)

Dregs
bounded through the mess in great excitement, a white plume plastered to the
black tip of his nose, sneezing.

‘I
had an accident,’ I said and coughed.

‘I’d
never have guessed. What were you doing?’

‘Looking
for a suitable restaurant for Violet.’

‘And
why does that require a room full of feathers?’

‘Umm
… Sorry. I got fed up and punched a cushion and it burst.’

‘I
see,’ said Hobbes. ‘So did that give you any hints? Presumably, you’re not
going to take her to the Feathers?’

I
shook my head. ‘I don’t know anywhere that’s good. Do you have any ideas?’

‘That
depends on what you fancy. If it’s a bit of curried Irish stew, why not try
Bombay Mick’s? Some people like it. Or Pavarotti’s is excellent if you prefer
spaghetti.’

‘I
want something a little more sophisticated – not overly expensive but still
up-market.’

‘In
that case, Le Sacré Bleu might be your best bet. It’s French and it’s highly
recommended by the Fat Man.’

‘The
Fat Man? Who’s he?’

‘The
Bugle’s
food writer. Don’t you know him?’

‘Oh,
yeah, but I’ve never read any of his stuff,’ I said, remembering his occasional
appearances at the
Bugle’s
office. He was a tall, bearded man, a little
doughy around the middle perhaps but not fat as such. With his battered leather
coat and hunter look, he ought to have been a crime writer.

‘You
should, he’s very good. He has a most inventive and ludicrous turn of phrase
but, once you cut through that, he’s a reliable and honest critic. He’s brave
too. About five years ago, having lunched at the Feathers, he wrote a scathing,
though truthful, review of Featherlight’s cooking, refusing to recant even when
Featherlight dangled him from the church tower.’

It
says something about Featherlight that I was more surprised to hear he’d
squeezed his great bulk up the narrow, twisting staircase of the tower than
that he’d dangled a man off it.

‘What
happened?’

‘Featherlight
dropped him onto the slabs below, where he made a splendid splash of colour on
what would otherwise have been a rather grey winter’s morning.’

‘Did
he?’

‘Of
course not. I managed to convince the lump that passes for Featherlight’s brain
that dropping the Fat Man would result in even worse publicity, so he put him
down and went back to the kitchen. Of course, when the
Bugle
printed the
story, people queued up for hours to enjoy the Feathers’ experience.’ He shook
his head.

‘So,’
I said, trying to get back on track, ‘you’d recommend Le Sacré Bleu? Have you
ever eaten there?’

‘Twice,
when I’ve had work to do around there.’

‘Where
is it, exactly?’

‘Out
on Monkshood Lane at the bottom of Helmet Hill.’

‘Oh
right. That’s near Loop Woods isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘D’you
think it’ll be safe? I mean with this panther about?’

He
sucked his teeth. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Panthers are notorious for attacking
customers in smart restaurants.’

‘You’re
joking … aren’t you?’

He
sighed. ‘Look, panthers are shy beasts and, though it’s possible one might lurk
in the woods, it’s hardly likely to lurk in a restaurant. Now, I think you
ought to clean up your mess before the lass gets home.’

I nodded, reassured and pleased now I had
somewhere suitable to take Violet. Strangely, I quite enjoyed picking up the
feathers and stuffing them into a bin liner, since it seemed an age since I’d
felt able to do anything. I still went to bed early and slept until late.

I
awoke, refreshed, to a bright, warm morning. As consciousness returned, I
grinned the smug grin of a man who, in a few hours, was to be taken out by a
beautiful woman and wined and dined and … I didn’t dare consider any further
possibilities. I knew so little about her, other than that her voice had a
lovely, silky purr, that she was beautiful and sophisticated and that her
brother was a millionaire. It wasn’t long before my stomach contracted, for a
nasty little voice in my head kept niggling, saying I didn’t deserve her, I was
nowhere near good-looking enough, I was pathetically lacking in dynamism and
success. Nothing about me could possibly attract a woman like her: it was obvious
she had other motives. Another voice, not so nasty, but equally insidious,
suggested she only wanted me for my body and that, having used me, she’d
discard me, broken-hearted. Although, for a moment, I wished I could call the
whole thing off, hanging around with Hobbes had awakened my sense of adventure
and I was determined to see it through, to accept whatever fate had prepared
for me. Besides, I didn’t know her phone number.

After
breakfast, I just wished the day would get a move on. I spent my time pottering
round the garden or loitering in the house, trying to avoid Mrs Goodfellow, who
insisted on twinkling and digging me in the ribs. In mitigation, she did, at
least, feed me with a world-beating pea and ham soup at lunchtime.

Afterwards,
she helped me sort out some clothes for the evening: smart-casual was what she
had in mind. Ferreting through cupboards, chests of drawers and wardrobes, she
dug out a crisp white shirt, a silk tie bearing a crest that meant nothing to
me, a navy-blue blazer with gleaming buttons, and a pair of white deck shoes. It
all looked pretty good, though I did rebel, not wishing to appear foppish, when
she produced a straw boater.

Apart
from a brief encounter at breakfast, I didn’t see Hobbes until he returned for
his supper. Mrs Goodfellow’s curry had been steaming and bubbling and enticing
me with mouth-watering aromas for hours, and his evident delight as he devoured
it proved too much to bear. I had to go and sit in the garden with Dregs until
it was all over.

Then
it was time for a bath, to get dressed, to ensure I was presentable. When,
finally, reasonably satisfied with the results, I went down to the sitting room
to fidget. Hobbes, who having finished the Demon Sudoku, was preparing to go
out, told me that Henry Bishop, having dug out another shotgun, had taken a pot
shot at one of Les Bashem’s kids before running away. Though, fortunately, the
child had not been hurt, he had decided to arrest Henry. Despite being more
focussed on how long the clock was taking to reach eight o’clock, I felt a
twinge of pity for the hunted man, who wouldn’t, I suspected, get very far
before retribution took him. Still, I thought as Hobbes left, the bastard
deserved everything that was going to happen to him.

A
car pulling up outside, I leaped up, looking out the window. It was a
middle-aged couple in a Volvo. Sitting back down, I tried to keep still,
watching the clock’s hands, working in slow motion, at last reach eight o’clock
and creep on to five past. I knew she wasn’t going to turn up, knew my fears
had come true; it had all been a cruel joke and she’d diddled me out of an
exceptional curry. Sighing, I got to my feet, intending to hide my
disappointment in my room.

The
doorbell ringing, Dregs burst into the sitting room, barking madly.

‘Shut
up!’ I yelled.

Since
he hadn’t quite forgiven me for shocking him the previous day, he retreated to
the kitchen with a martyred look as I opened the door.

‘Hi,’
said Violet.

‘Hi,’
I said.

She
looked stunning in a simple red dress, her smooth, tanned shoulders glowing in
the evening light. Her hair was up and the soft curve of her neck took my
breath away.

‘Hello.’
She smiled over my shoulder at Mrs Goodfellow. ‘Shall we go, Andy?’

‘Umm
… yeah.’

‘Make
sure to have him home by midnight,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘The lad needs his
sleep.’

‘Of
course.’ She waved goodbye, and led me to her gleaming red Lotus, parked a few
yards down the street.

She
started the engine. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To
Le Sacré Bleu.’

I
suddenly realised it was my responsibility to tell her how to find it and,
though I had been out that way with Hobbes on many occasions, I’d mostly had my
eyes shut: fortunately, the car had a satnav. Violet liked to drive fast but
only when the road conditions permitted and I felt quite safe. The wind, the
growl of the engine and the blare of the classical music she was playing meant
conversation was impossible, which was just as well, because I couldn’t think
of anything to say.

After
about fifteen minutes and one nearly wrong turning, when the satnav suggested a
short cut via the River Soren, we crossed a bridge into the car park of Le
Sacré Bleu.

Stopping
the engine, she unbuckled her seat belt. ‘Nice place,’ she said.

It
was. Before us was an ancient manor, its mellow, honey-coloured stone, clad in
an ivy gown, snuggled in a hollow at the foot of Helmet Hill. The little River Soren,
fringed with dancing reeds, dotted with jerky moorhens, wound past on the edge
of a daisy-strewn lawn. A lazy heron flew above and sheep murmured in the
surrounding fields. It looked idyllic, except that the car park was worryingly
full.

‘Shall
we go in?’ she asked. ‘I’m starving.’

‘OK.’

I
gnawed my lip as we followed our long shadows down the stone-paved path to the
entrance, cursing myself silently as an idiot for not having thought to book a
table. A familiar, cold feeling had gripped my stomach and the memory of all
those parked cars was twisting my insides. Still, I had no choice; I had to go
through with it.

Violet
ushered me inside into a pleasantly cool room, with dark beams, white
tablecloths, sparkling glasses and gleaming silver, a room where rich aromas
tempted all taste buds. Noticing every table in sight was occupied, I swallowed,
trying to look suave.

‘This
is obviously the place to be,’ said Violet. ‘It’s a great choice.’

I
attempted a nonchalant smile as a tall man in a white shirt and bow tie
approached.

‘Bonsoir, monsieur, mademoiselle. Welcome to Le Sacré
Bleu.
How
may I help you?’

‘Umm
… a table for two, please?’

‘Have
you booked, sir?’

‘Umm
… well ….’

The
man sucked his teeth and glanced around him. ‘I’m afraid we are rather busy
tonight.’

‘There’s
no problem is there, Andy?’ asked Violet.

‘Umm
….’

‘Andy?’
The man smiled. ‘Ah, so you must be Monsieur Andy Caplet?’

‘Must
I? Umm … yes, I suppose I must be.’

‘Excellent.
Then we have a booking for a table for two persons at eight-thirty. Follow me,
please.’ Picking up a couple of menus, he led us to a table by an open window,
letting in a refreshing breeze and the scent of flowers.

‘I
see you have influence,’ said Violet.

I
nodded, trying to keep it together, dazed by what had just happened,
ridiculously afraid another Andy Caplet would turn up, demanding his booking.

The
man seated us and handed out the menus. ‘Would you care for aperitifs?’

‘No,
we’ve brought our own.’ I said, not thinking straight. ‘Oh, you mean drinks?’

Violet
laughed. ‘Very funny. I’d like a pastis, please.’

‘Very
good, mademoiselle. And for monsieur?’

‘A
pint of lager … umm … on second thoughts, I’ll have the same.’

As
he departed, I smiled across at Violet, who smiled back. I smiled again and
sent my gaze to wander round the room, searching for something to say.

‘This
is really nice,’ she said before anything occurred. ‘Isn’t the view delightful?
The river’s lovely.’

‘It
is. I’ve never been here before but Hobbes reckons it’s good.’

‘He
scares me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why.’

‘He
scares me a bit, too, sometimes – but he’s been very kind.’

The
introduction of Hobbes, coinciding with the arrival of our drinks, breached the
dam and conversation began to flow. Suddenly, I was chatting to her like to an old
friend, explaining about Hobbes, what he’d done for me, about his crime-busting,
but I couldn’t bring myself to expose his dark side or to mention the really
odd bits. I didn’t want to present him in a bad light. After all, he could do
that well enough for himself.

When,
a few minutes later, a waitress arrived to take our orders, we had to send her
away as neither of us had got as far as opening the menu. When I did, my heart
sank for most of the words, except for ratatouille and meringue, were in French.

‘This
is inspired,’ said Violet.
‘I think I’ll start with the
Pieds de Cochon Farci au Foie Gras et
aux Langoustines.
How about
you?’

‘Umm … I might have the same.’

‘Really? It’s not everyone who likes pigs’ trotters.’

‘Oh … I didn’t think … Sorry, but my French isn’t very
good.’