Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (15 page)

‘Mine is.’ She smiled. ‘When I was a little girl we used to
holiday in a chateau by the Rhone. I’ll help you.’

It felt weird to admit my ignorance and not feel stupid
about it, for something about her made me secure and I felt no awkwardness as
she translated and explained. I even felt secure enough to tell her about my
holiday on the Algarve, when I’d ordered chocos, expecting something chocolaty,
instead being presented with a plate of cuttlefish. I’d put a brave face on it,
forcing them down, bones and all. She laughed, seeming to find me very amusing.
In the end, with her help, I settled for ‘potage du jour’ followed by ‘
Fillet
of Venison and Confit of Shoulder with Dry Fruits Sauce’. She went for ‘Shank
of Pork Confit with Lentils Sauce and Bacon
’ and ordered a bottle of
Château something.

The
food was superb, nearly matching Mrs G’s, though it felt disloyal to think so.
Nevertheless, I didn’t appreciate it as much as it deserved because Violet was
taking so much of my attention. For some reason, and it wasn’t the wine,
because I was being sensible, I felt utterly relaxed in her company, absolutely
comfortable. She laughed or offered sympathy in all the right places, smiling
whenever our eyes met. In my opinion, and realising I’d only just met her, we
were right for each other. If I’d have had time to think, I would have been
amazed.

At
length, excusing herself, she headed towards the Ladies. I watched her walk
away, appreciating the sway of her hips, the way her dark hair gleamed in the
candlelight, noticing with some indignation and, I admit, a touch of smugness,
that she’d not gone unnoticed by other men. While I tried to look cool, as if
accustomed to dining with a beautiful woman, I still found it unbelievable that
she’d picked me and had to keep on trying to quiet the niggling part of my
brain warning that good things didn’t happen to me and that, if they did, the
price I’d pay would be terrible.

Once
she was out of sight, I permitted myself a sip of wine, savouring the smooth,
mellow fruitiness for the first time. She obviously knew her wines, for even I
could tell it was a cracking good one, nearly as good as Hobbes’s.

Outside,
a cow bellowed, a little owl yipped, and a couple of muffled pops suggested a
farmer was waging a vendetta against the wood pigeon population. Inside, I was revelling
in how much I was enjoying the evening, smiling complacently at other diners,
occasionally peering out into the garden, which was already filling with dusk. Across
the road, I could make out part of Loop Woods, which, beyond the shadow cast by
Helmet Hill, glowed bright and brittle in the red light. In that moment I felt
a chill, as if something was watching me. Perhaps, deep under the cover of the
trees, a panther really was lurking. Taking a gulp of wine, I tried to ward off
my foolish fears. Violet seemed to be taking her time doing whatever women do.

As
I looked back into the restaurant, I glimpsed a movement from the garden, as if
something had slipped from light into shadow. I jerked back, staring, unable at
first to see anything out of the ordinary, nearly convinced my mind had been playing
tricks. Then, without a doubt, there was a movement. Something darker than
twilight was heading my way. It was nowhere near tall enough to be human and,
though, it might have been as big as a panther, its lurching, uncoordinated
movements were anything but feline. As it moved from my field of vision, I wished,
for the first time that evening, that Hobbes was with me. I tried to persuade
myself that I was being ridiculous. What danger could there be inside a crowded
restaurant? But where was Violet? Feeling a sudden cold horror that she’d
decided to step outside for a moment, I heard a cry from the garden.

I
stood up and ran towards the door, side-stepping an astonished waiter, his arms
full of plates, and jerked the door open. A hunched figure grabbed my blazer,
whispered ‘Help me’ and fell face forward onto my feet. A woman screamed and
the restaurant was in turmoil. Blood had splattered the stone floor, spotting
my trousers; the figure, a man, making a low, bubbling groan, lay still.

‘What’s
happening?’

Violet’s
voice, coming from behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief. The situation seemed
to have paralysed everyone, except for her. Pushing through the gawping diners,
brushing me aside, she knelt by the body and rolled it onto its back.

It
was Henry Bishop, his shirt front dripping with the blood that gushed from a
jagged wound in his throat.

Henry
Bishop lay in a spreading pool of his own blood, as Violet, pressing her slim
white fingers to his neck, fought to stem the dreadful flow. It was to no avail.
He twitched, gurgled and her hands were drenched by one dreadful, final
haemorrhage. His life had ended and, though he’d been a violent, wife-beating
bully, no one deserved to die like that.

Everyone
in the restaurant was standing in a wide, staring semi-circle around us: not
quite everyone, for someone was vomiting.

‘Is
he alright?’ asked the headwaiter, his face as white as his shirt.

‘No,
he’s not all right,’ said Violet in a quiet voice.

‘Oh,
Lord!’ The headwaiter waved his hands in the air like a man distracted.

‘Do
you think he’s dead?’ asked a fat man in a too-tight dickey-bow. ‘Have you
checked his pulse?’

I
doubted Henry had enough throat left to check.

‘What
are we going to do?’ asked the headwaiter, teetering on the verge of hysterics.

Violet
looked up, the hem of her dress dark with blood. ‘Could someone get help?’

Nobody
moved, all of them paralysed, shocked.

‘I’ll
do it,’ I said, ‘if someone can lend me their phone?’

A
young woman, looking horrified, scared, rummaged in her handbag and handed me
her mobile. Calling 999, I requested an ambulance and the police before trying
Hobbes’s mobile. He didn’t answer so, giving the phone back, I knelt to help
Violet.

The
headwaiter was clutching his head, moaning. ‘We’ll be ruined. What will become
of us? What could have done such a thing?’

‘Perhaps
it was that panther,’ said a bald, red-faced man.

Panic
ensued, diners running, grabbing handbags and jackets. A plump, middle-aged
couple headed towards the door, as though intending to paddle through the
blood.

I
stood up, feeling I had to do something. ‘Everyone stay where you are,’ I shouted.
To my surprise, the stampede ceased, as all eyes looked to me for leadership
and, though I could feel my cheeks reddening, I knew the procedure.

‘No
one else must touch the body, or leave the building until the police say so. We
don’t know what killed him yet and they may require statements.’

Some
nodded, a few frowned but no one moved for the door. The woman whose phone I’d
borrowed began to cry.

‘If
it’s the bloody panther that killed him,’ said the red-faced man, pushing
towards me, ‘it’s not murder and there’s no reason to stay. I want to leave.’

‘We
don’t know a panther did it,’ I said. ‘Besides, if it did, who’s to say it’s
not still outside?’

My
argument striking home, the red-faced man returned to his table, where, to my
astonishment, he sat down and carried on eating his steak. ‘Shame to waste it,’
he said.

Although
some, agreeing with him, returned to their meals, most sat, grey-faced, waiting
for the police.

‘Andy,’
said Violet.

She
was still kneeling and, despite everything, I couldn’t help admiring the
sparkle of her eyes, her brave attempt at a smile, the hint of cleavage as I
looked down.

‘I
need to wash,’ she said.

I
helped her to her feet, trying not to recoil at the sticky, congealing blood on
her trembling hands, supporting her towards the door of the Ladies. ‘Will you
be alright?’

She
nodded and I turned away, wiping my hands on a napkin before covering Henry’s
corpse with a white tablecloth. As it turned red, I had to fight the urge to
throw up. People were looking at me as if expecting that I’d take charge but, having
done my bit, I knew what had to be done next.

Beckoning
the headwaiter, I asked him to fetch me a brandy.

For
all the comprehension I saw in his eyes, I might have been speaking Swahili. ‘Get
me a brandy,’ I said in slow, measured tones, ‘a large one. Now!’

At
last, he nodded, staggering to the bar. As he reached for a glass, his hand was
shaking so much he shattered it. Though his second attempt was better, he still
slopped more onto the counter than into the glass before finally filling it, handing
it to me, and pouring one for himself. I took it back to our table, sipping,
comforted by the fiery liquid searing its way to my stomach. Hearing an approaching
siren, I glanced out into the garden.

Something
large was moving in the deepening darkness, something stealthy, something approaching
the restaurant. I gasped as Violet returned to her seat.

‘What’s
up?’ she asked in a small voice, ‘is something out there?’

‘I
think so, but I’m not sure what.’

She
was pale and trembling as I reached out to hold her hands.

‘It’ll
be alright,’ I said, ‘the police will be here soon and, anyway, I’m sure we’re
safe inside.’

‘Thank
you,’ she said, squeezing my fingers until I yelped.

Another
movement caught my attention, much closer than before, caught in the beam of a
car’s headlights. A hefty figure, more ape-like than cat-like, was loping
towards the window. I groaned.

Violet
gazed into my eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’

I
shook my head, unable to speak. Hobbes was out there, with blood on his face, a
feral look in his dark eyes.

A
few moments later, two policemen entered and took charge. I was soon too busy
relating what I’d seen to think about Hobbes, except to avoid mentioning him.
In my defence, I’d assumed he’d walk in to help with the investigation and
could give an innocent and reasonable explanation.

Some
paramedics, a pair of detectives and men in white suits turned up but Hobbes never
showed.

After
we’d all given our names and addresses, and an ambulance had taken away its
gory cargo, we were allowed home. It had just gone midnight.

I
was dazed as I left. I held Violet’s hand while she led me to the car and
strapped me in.

‘You
certainly know how to show a girl an interesting time,’ she said with a grimace
as she drove me home.

When
at last we reached Blackdog Street, I asked her in for coffee, feeling a
mixture of relief and sadness at her refusal, for my eyelids felt heavy, as if
coated with lead, and I couldn’t stop yawning. I’d known all along that the
evening would end in disaster but could hardly believe it had gone so
spectacularly wrong.

‘Good
night,’ I said, though the words didn’t sound appropriate. ‘Thank you for
dinner and I’m ever so sorry for everything.’ I got out of the car.

‘It wasn’t your fault, Andy,’ she said, her
voice calm and flat. ‘I’ll call you.’

She
drove away as I scaled the steps to the front door and went inside. Having
dreaded telling Mrs Goodfellow what had happened, I was glad she’d already
turned in. I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, finding Dregs dozing
in his basket; he acknowledged my return by blinking and giving a single wag of
his tail, which suited me, for I wasn’t in the mood for enthusiasm. I hurried
upstairs, washed and got ready for bed, terrified Hobbes would turn up so I’d
have to talk to him, relieved when he hadn’t appeared as I curled up in bed.

How
could he have done it? I knew that, for a policeman, he took a somewhat
personalised view of the law, but surely killing someone, even Henry Bishop,
was murder. Certainly, the man had deserved punishment but not death. Though I
tried to convince myself I’d imagined what I’d seen, that there’d be a reasonable
explanation, the image of Hobbes with blood on his face and that wild look in
his eyes would not go away. I lay in the dark, jumping at every noise, fearing
his return, wondering if I dared challenge him, wondering if I should just tell
the police, afraid they wouldn’t believe me, scared what he might do if he learned
what I’d witnessed.

Even more worrying was what he might do to
Violet, if he thought she knew anything. I felt so sorry for her for, though I’d
had little experience with women, I couldn’t help feeling the killing must have
quite ruined her evening, not to mention her beautiful dress. Still, I admired
her courage. She’d been the only one trying to help the dying man and it wasn’t
her fault he’d already been beyond hope. Would I ever see her again? I doubted
it, unable to escape from the fact that I’d only met her four times, three of which
had been total disasters.

The
last thing I expected happened. I fell asleep, sleeping well into next morning,
waking in a sweat, all the blankets piled on top, as if I were an animal in its
den. Since I’d not got round to drawing the curtains, I watched the dust-dancers
twinkling and scintillating, living their moment in the sun’s spotlight. From the
kitchen came the rich scent of baking bread: from the roof, a blackbird’s honey-throated
singing. Life felt great until a deluge of memories swept all before it.