Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (16 page)

By
the time I’d forced myself downstairs, I’d made a decision to say nothing to
Hobbes – until the time was right.

Mrs
Goodfellow was chopping vegetables at the table. ‘Good morning, dear. How was
your evening?’

‘Not
very good,’ I said, wondering how much she knew. ‘It started pretty well but then
… well, umm … a man got killed, which rather spoiled things.’

She
raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m not surprised. What happened to him?’

‘He
had his throat torn out. Violet tried to help him but it was no good.’

‘That’s
not nice. Did an animal do it?’

‘I
don’t know. I suppose so.’ I couldn’t tell her what I was thinking.

‘Was
he anyone I know?’

‘Henry
Bishop.’

‘Henry
Bishop? No, I don’t know him. I never will, now. Hold on, though, isn’t he the
one who hits his wife?’

‘He
used to. Didn’t Hobbes tell you about it?’

‘No,
dear. He must have got up early and was out before I came down. He’s taken the
dog, too. He had Sugar Puffs for breakfast, so I suspect he’s busy but, of
course, he’s bound to be busy if someone’s been killed.’

‘Of
course,’ I said, sitting down.

‘Oh,
well. Would you like any breakfast?’

‘Just
toast and marmalade. I’m not that hungry.’

‘If
you’re sure.’ She sliced some bread and put the kettle on.

The
way she looked after me, though I did enjoy it, often made me feel uneasy, for
she was Hobbes’s housekeeper, not mine; I could, in theory, have looked after
myself. With a shrug, I awaited service.

‘We
don’t get many killings round here,’ she said, buttering a thick slice of
toast. ‘The old fellow won’t stand for them and he’ll be in a right grumpy mood
until he catches the killer, whatever it is.’

‘He
might be in a bad mood for some time,’ I said.

‘Why’s
that?’

‘Oh,
well, this time, he mightn’t want to. He might think Henry deserved it; when he
saw what he did to poor Mrs Bishop, he was more furious than I’ve ever seen
him.’

‘He’ll
still want to clear things up. He always has done, and he’s good at it.’

I
nodded, wondering how much had now changed. As I munched my toast, I again tried
to work out how to proceed, for the police might just laugh at my suspicions;
alternatively, if they took me seriously and came to arrest him, I doubted he’d
go quietly. I wasn’t even sure I could betray him after everything he’d done
for me. Furthermore, I couldn’t imagine how the old girl would take it. She
idolised Hobbes, treating him with a peculiar mix of motherly pride and
schoolgirl crush. Another important consideration was that, if I did turn him
in, I’d have to move out and fend for myself, a prospect far from pleasant,
yet, wasn’t it still my duty, as a responsible citizen, to report what I’d seen?
I couldn’t do it, though whether through loyalty, fear, or selfishness, I
couldn’t decide.

Wondering
whether the
Bugle
had reported the incident, I asked where the paper
might be.

‘I
expect the old fellow took it. But, never mind that, did you get on well with
your young lady?’

‘Alright,
in the circumstances I suppose. She’s ever so nice but she’s hardly going to
forget an evening like that. It’s all over before it’s even started.’

‘Did
she say that?’

‘No.
She said she’d call me.’

‘There
you go. It couldn’t have been so bad if she’s going to call you.’

Putting
on a brave smile, I nodded, finishing my breakfast. I’m sure the old girl would
have loved me to talk more but I wasn’t in the mood, responding to her
questioning with grunts and one-word answers. My stock of optimism had run out
and all that remained in store was a glut of gloom and misery.

‘I need some air,’ I said, wiping toast
crumbs from my hands and heading for the street.

We
were in the grip of a scorcher and, though the church clock showed it was not
yet eleven, the town was oppressive as if it had been superheated. Rolling up
my shirt-sleeves didn’t make me any cooler, just allowing the sun to scorch my
forearms.

I
went into the library, which offered welcome shade, picked up the
Bugle
from a rack by the door and took it to an armchair in the corner. Though Henry
Bishop’s grisly death having made the front page wasn’t a surprise, I was
amazed the lead story was about Felix King’s plans for the town. I ignored it,
reading Phil Waring’s article about Henry, which, to my astonishment, made no
suggestion that Henry might have been murdered. The police, it reported, were
keeping an open mind but there was a suggestion that a panther might have done
it.

It
seemed Hobbes had committed the perfect crime.

Except,
it wasn’t quite perfect; I was a witness, even though I hadn’t actually seen
him do the dirty deed.

Thoughts
swirled through my head like snowflakes in a globe: images of Hobbes covered in
blood, Henry’s frightened face, Violet kneeling in his blood, the faces in Le
Sacré Bleu. Unable to clear the dying man’s last gurgle from my head, my brain
felt full, as if it would explode. I fought to remain calm, to think rationally
as I concentrated on the reported facts, sketchy as they were. According to the
article, Henry’s shotgun had been found by a tree. For a moment I tried to work
out how a tree was capable of finding anything. Realising I wasn’t making
sense, that I needed air and space, I ran from the library.

I
don’t know what would have happened had I not stumbled across Billy Shawcroft,
lying on the lawn outside.

Crying
out in alarm and pain, he knelt up, rubbing his back.

‘Sorry,
I didn’t see you there,’ I said. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I
was better before you trod on me. Can’t a guy sunbathe in peace?’

‘Sorry,
I was distracted. I saw someone with his throat torn out last night.’

‘What?
That bloke in the paper that got done in by the panther? You were there?’

‘I
was.’

‘They
say he was a right bloody mess.’

‘Yes.’

‘But,’
asked Billy, looking puzzled, ‘didn’t it happen up Monkshood Lane at some posh
restaurant?’

I
nodded.

‘So,
what were you doing there?’

‘I
was having dinner with … umm … a … lady.’

Billy’s
eyebrows going into orbit, a big grin split his face. ‘You lucky bugger!’

‘Not
so lucky. The murder rather spoiled everything.’

‘I
suppose so, but it wasn’t murder, was it? It was a panther.’

‘Was
it?’ I asked, shaking.

Billy
stared. ‘You’d better come with me. I start work in ten minutes and you look
like you could do with a drink but, take it easy won’t you? I heard what you
did at the fete.’ Getting to his feet, slipping his shirt back on, he took me
to the Feathers.

I
walked with him, dizzy, swaying as if I’d already had a few, gasping in the
midday heat. He led me inside, sitting me by the door, where a breeze ruffled
my hair.

‘What
can I get you?’

‘Umm
… I’ve no money.’

‘My
treat. Whisky?’

I
nodded. ‘And a lager, if you don’t mind, I’m very thirsty.’

The
drinks appearing before me, I swallowed half the lager and knocked back the
whisky, which, as always, had an odd flavour. According to rumour, Featherlight’s
spirits were distilled in a disused warehouse in Pigton. It burned like liquid
fire, melting my throat, numbing my brain, making me feel better, despite a
burning sensation and a sour affliction of the stomach. Lost in my own
thoughts, I lingered over the remnants of my lager until, the hands on the
clock showing a quarter to one, it was time to go home for dinner.

‘Cheers,
Billy,’ I said to the top of his head, all I could see of him as he poured a glass
of cider for a man in a pinstripe suit.

Walking
back to Blackdog Street with my stomach gurgling, I was unsure whether to blame
the whisky, or the prospect of having to talk to Hobbes, something I’d have to
do sometime, if I had sufficient nerve to confront him. If I hadn’t, I wasn’t
certain I could stay with him, knowing what I knew.

From
a purely intellectual viewpoint, I knew it would be better to do it sooner
rather than later but cowardice was strong that afternoon and suggested silence
would be easier.

Relieved
on opening the front door to sense he hadn’t yet returned, I found the fresh
tang of salad and baked bread soothing. The church clock chiming the hour, the
front door opened as I took my place at the table. A moment later Dregs was jumping
all over me and Hobbes walked into the kitchen with a slight limp. Despite
that, he looked remarkably cheerful, if a little weary. He grinned at me.

‘I
understand,’ he said, ‘that you took charge at the restaurant last night. Well
done.’

I
mumbled something non-controversial.

‘I’m
famished,’ he said, washing his hands in the sink, ‘and parched, too.’ He sat at
the table and poured a flagon of ginger beer down his throat. ‘That’s better.
How was the Feathers?’

‘How
do you know I’ve been there?’

‘Elementary,
Andy. You reek of lager and the stuff he calls whisky and your forearms are
stained with that unusual blend of old beer, cigarettes and general filth that
only exists on tables at the Feathers.’

I
glanced at the orange-brown stains. ‘I see. Billy bought me a drink because …
umm … I trod on him. Featherlight wasn’t in.’ It was hardly an adequate
explanation, but Hobbes was distracted by the vast plate of salad and meats the
old girl was carrying.

‘Thanks
lass,’ he said as she laid it before him.

I
received a similar, if smaller offering and, after the usual delay for grace,
we tucked in, treating the meal with the reverence and deep appreciation it
warranted. The only words he spoke until we’d finished were when he asked me to
pass the pepper. After we’d finished every last morsel, I expected he would
enjoy a mug of tea in the sitting room, as usual, giving me an opportunity to
ask how he was getting on with the investigation. I gulped, because, at the
appropriate time, I intended voicing my suspicions.

To
my relief, things didn’t go as expected. Instead of going through to the
sitting room, he picked up his mug, threw in a fistful of sugar and said, ‘I’m
going to take forty winks.’ Having stirred the scalding liquid, he licked his
finger dry and turned to Mrs Goodfellow. ‘I’ll be out early tonight, so I’d be
obliged if you’d prepare my supper for five o’clock.’ He yawned.

‘Of
course,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘I was planning beef rissoles.’

‘Thanks,
lass. That will be splendid. Make plenty of ’em; it may be a long night.’ With
that, he retired to his bedroom from where, a few minutes later, a series of
bone-shaking snores emerged.

Taking
my tea into the garden, I sat beneath the old apple tree as the afternoon grew
still and humid. Surrounded by the hum of bees and the soporific, heavy scent
of flowers, I, too, nodded off, awaking to the sound of thunder. The sky was
leaden, the first fat raindrops were shaking the leaves, as I grabbed my mug,
still half-full of cold tea, and fled inside. The kitchen clock showed
five-thirty.

I
was mostly pleased to see the old girl washing up Hobbes’s dishes, to know he’d
already gone out, despite realising that delay would only make accusations more
difficult.

Dregs
was dozing in the doorway to the sitting room. Stepping over him, switching on
the television, I sat on the sofa, waiting for the news. Henry Bishop hadn’t
made the national headlines, only coming in third on the local news, behind
reports of a political scandal in the council, and a devastating fire in a
warehouse near Pigton.

‘Good
evening,’ said Rebecca Hussy, a pretty, fresh-faced reporter in a crisp white
blouse, addressing the camera outside Le Sacré Bleu. ‘Last night, around ten o’clock,
Henry Bishop, a respected local farmer and businessman, was discovered bleeding
in the doorway of the exclusive restaurant behind me. Despite staff and
customers battling desperately to save him and paramedics rushing to the scene,
Mr Bishop died. According to unconfirmed reports, he had suffered severe
injuries to his throat, injuries consistent with a vicious attack from a large
predator. Terrified local residents say a big cat, probably a panther, has been
sighted on numerous occasions recently. Red-faced officials admit they have not
taken the reports seriously.’

So, the big cat story was holding up; Hobbes
was not even a suspect. Rebecca went on to interview Mrs Bishop, who appeared
distraught at the death of her husband, describing him as ‘one in a million,
the sort of man who would never have hurt a fly.’ There was hardly anything new,
except for one fact that made me gasp; both barrels of Henry’s shotgun had been
fired. Might that, I wondered, have explained Hobbes’s limp? Flinching as a
rumble of thunder rattled the windows, I dived deep into a dark pool of worry.