Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (30 page)

‘The
old fellow’s supposed to be having the afternoon off,’ said Mrs G, ‘but he said
he’d better take a close look at Loop’s Farm.’

‘Loop’s
Farm?’

‘That’s
right, dear. The festival’s on next weekend and those cats still haven’t gone
away – he says he nearly caught one on Saturday night. What’s more, he believes
something else is on the prowl, though it seemed to intrigue him rather than
worry him.’

I
nodded, coming to a decision. ‘That’s interesting,’ I said, ‘because I think I
saw something when I was walking home, something odd.’

‘Did
you, dear?’

‘Yes,
it was when the lightning flashed. I saw it and it scared me so much I ran away
as fast as my legs could carry me, and further than I’d have thought possible.’

‘What
did you see?’

Screwing
up my eyes, I tried to pick out the image from a mess of memories. ‘It was
about man-sized and shaped, not as big as Hobbes or Featherlight, but big
enough and it was sort of standing upright, yet kind of hunched, and it looked
like it had hair and eyes. And teeth.’

‘All
the better to eat you with, dear.’

I
laughed. ‘But the crazy thing is I’m sure it was wearing trousers.’

‘So
you’re telling me you saw what looked like a man wearing trousers?
Extraordinary!’

‘Yes,’
I said, feeling slightly foolish, ‘but it wasn’t a man, I’m certain.’

‘You
haven’t been very well. Perhaps the fever made you imagine things.’

‘Maybe
… but I don’t think so. I don’t think I was ill then.’

On reflection, I didn’t believe I’d been
hallucinating, remaining convinced something frightening had really been out
there, something that was almost certainly a werewolf, though I didn’t want to
admit it, not even to myself. Once upon a time, before Hobbes, I’d have found
it impossible to believe the evidence of my eyes, but I’d learned that strange
folk lived among us, strange folk that went unremarked for the most part.

Still
lethargic and tired, it was all I could do to slump in front of the telly,
watching a heart-warming made-for-TV movie about a woman’s brave fight for life
and love after a horrific car crash left her with a collection of rather
photogenic scars. Climaxing in a spurt of sickly sentimentality, it nearly
turned my stomach, leaving me deep in melancholy.

Desperate
for news of Violet, I could have kicked myself for not having thought to get
her phone number, an obvious move, yet one that had never occurred to me, since
she’d been the one to get in touch. I wondered if I’d been a little passive,
whether some assertiveness would have been to my benefit, perhaps even impressing
Felix. Realising that, if I’d shown any sign of being a man, I wouldn’t have
been me, I spent some time wallowing in a mire of self-indulgent misery. Yet, eventually,
I roused enough to call the hospital. The woman I spoke to refused to answer
any questions about Violet on the grounds that the law forbade it, refusing to
budge even after I’d told her what I thought of the law.

I
moped, having run out of options. Though, in truth, I knew I hadn’t, I indulged
my feelings of helplessness, unwilling to admit the most obvious course of
action; I had Felix’s card and could phone him, if I dared. I fretted and
dithered and, though it was a close call, my need to know won out in the end. Finding
his card, dried out and creased, on the dressing table in my room, I took it to
the phone and dialled the number.

‘Mr
King’s office,’ said an efficient female voice. ‘Carol speaking. How may I help
you?’

‘I
umm … I’d like to talk to Felix.’

‘Mr
King is out of the office. Can I take a message?’

‘Umm
…’ I said, having failed to anticipate this contingency, ‘yes … or perhaps you
can help me? I want to know how Violet King is.’

‘I’m
afraid Miss King is off work. She was involved in a car accident.’

‘I
know. I was with her. How is she?’

‘May
I take your name, sir?’

‘Yes,
it’s Caplet. Andy Caplet.’

‘I
thought it might be; Mr King informed me of the possibility you would call. He
said anyone with a modicum of decency would have followed her to the hospital.’

‘But
I couldn’t …’

‘Mr
King,’ Carol continued, ‘asked me to let you know that you are a self-centred,
money-grubbing bastard.’

‘I’m
not …’

‘And
you are to leave his sister alone. Should you persist in importuning her, steps
will be taken. That is all.’

‘But
is she alright?’

‘That
is all, Mr Caplet.’

‘But
please, I must know how she is.’

‘You
could have asked her yourself if you’d been bothered enough to visit her in
hospital.’

‘But
I was seriously ill.’

‘Were
you?’ she asked, the faintest hint of feminine sympathy in her voice.

‘Yes
… I’ve had a terrible fever and have only just risen from my sickbed,’ I said,
laying it on a bit thick, making my voice sound weak and feeble.

It
worked.

‘Alright,
then,’ she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, ‘and don’t tell anyone I told
you, but Miss King is fine now. She had a mild shock with a few minor cuts and
bruises and is taking a break until she feels better.’

‘Thank
you,’ I murmured, though I don’t know why I, too, felt the need to lower my
voice. Things were going so well that I thought I’d push my luck. ‘Umm … I
wonder if you could let me have her address? Or her phone number?’

‘Don’t
push it,’ said Carol, ‘I’ve already said more than I should have.’

‘Please!’

‘Sorry.’
Her voice returned to normal. ‘Thank you for calling, sir. Goodbye.’ She put
the phone down.

My
first feeling was of relief that Violet was alright for, although, I’d had no
reason to believe she wouldn’t be, it was a great weight off my mind to be
certain. My second feeling was of outrage. How dare Felix try to order me
around? How dare he tell his secretary to insult me? The third feeling was of
slow, cold fear. What if Carol told Felix I’d called? The fourth feeling was more
familiar: total bewilderment. I didn’t know what to do next.

As
afternoon rolled into early evening, I caught myself laughing at children’s
cartoons, feeling better the sillier they were, for they stopped me having to
think. The early evening news put my problems into perspective, though other
people’s tragedies didn’t make me feel any better about my own.

The
front door bursting open, I was pounced on by Dregs who seemed delighted to see
me downstairs and, though my battle to keep his tongue at a safe distance ended
in an abject rout, his enthusiasm cheered me.

‘Good
to see you up,’ said Hobbes, striding into the room, baring his great yellow
teeth in a smile. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Not
too bad. I’m ready for my supper, though.’

‘Me
too,’ he said as he bounded upstairs to wash his hands.

At
supper, I was, once again, a little disappointed at the lack of response from
my taste buds, despite Mrs G having cooked a magnificent shepherd’s pie with
Sunday’s leftover lamb. Still, it filled me up perfectly and I would have been
a relatively contented Andy, had Hobbes not poured himself a goblet of wine and
drunk it with such evident enjoyment. Mrs G wouldn’t allow me any alcohol while
I was on antibiotics.

The
wine reminding me of what Felix had said, I wondered if he’d regard me more
favourably if I sorted something out for him.

‘Violet’s
brother, Felix, asked me to ask you where you got your wine from.’

‘And
you’ve asked me,’ said Hobbes with a chuckle. ‘Well done.’ He took another sip
and sighed.

‘The
thing is, Felix reckons it’s quality stuff and wants to buy some.’

‘He’s
right about the quality, but he’ll not find it on sale anywhere.’

‘Why
not?’

‘Because
it’s a gift.’

‘Who
from?’ I asked, resentful that no one ever gave me valuable presents.

‘A
friend.’

‘Oh,
well, in that case, Felix wanted to know whether he might buy any off you. He
said you could name your price.’

‘What
price can you put on a gift from a friend?’ asked Hobbes.

That
stumped me, though I knew what price you could put on a gift from a mother. It
was £5.99 in the sale – she’d left the price tag on the jumper she’d given me
for my birthday. ‘I don’t know but I reckon he’d pay … umm … a hundred pounds a
bottle.’

‘As
much as that?’ asked Hobbes, raising his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t he know he can pick
up a drinkable wine from the supermarket for less than a tenner?’

‘I
doubt he’d consider drinking anything in that price range.’

‘Why
not?’
Hobbes asked

‘Umm
… I think he regards himself as a connoisseur, liking only the really good
stuff. That’s why he’s so interested in yours.’

I
felt I was really in there, fighting for Felix, doing exactly what he wanted me
to do, though I wouldn’t have been had I not wanted a chance with Violet. I
still couldn’t accept it was any of Felix’s business what I did with his
sister, as long as she wanted me. Of course, she hadn’t called me and I seemed
to be losing any chance of getting the wine for him.

‘I’m
sorry,’ said Hobbes firmly, ‘I can’t sell the wine, though, since he’s a friend
of yours, he can have a crate as a gift.’

‘What?
Really?’ I said, staggered by his generosity.

‘Of
course.’ He drained his goblet. ‘If he’s a friend of yours, then he’s a friend
of mine. Right, I’m off to bed. I’m getting too old for all these nights out on
the tiles. Thanks, lass for a delicious supper.’ Yawning, he rose from the
table and strode upstairs.

I
sat back, feeling like a hypocrite, for, though I hadn’t actually said Felix
was my friend, I’d let him think it. Worse, I didn’t care to think on my reason
for helping Felix: getting him the wine in order to buy his favour, hoping he
would then allow me to get off with his little sister. I didn’t feel at all
good about myself, despite my intentions being, more or less, strictly
honourable. The whole episode had acquired a sleazy taint.

Mrs
Goodfellow, materialising at my elbow, nudged me, resulting in a vertical
take-off. ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she said.

I
landed back on my chair, shaking.

‘You
were looking very thoughtful, dear.’

‘Yes
… umm … I was just wondering where he gets his wine from.’

‘From
an old friend,’ she said.

‘Yeah,
but which old friend?’

‘It’s
from the Count.’

‘His
friend’s a Count?’

‘Yes,
they met during the war, when the old fellow was able to do him a small
service. They became friends and the Count sends him wine in gratitude.’

‘Which
war?’

‘The
Great one, dear. The First World War, you know?’

‘I
know,’ I said, having seen the Victoria Cross in a tin in a drawer in his desk
at the police station. Besides, Mrs Goodfellow had occasionally told me small
details of his heroics, something he never spoke of. Though, somehow, I’d grown
comfortable with the idea of his participation in a war a century ago, I was
puzzled by his friend. ‘I suppose the Count must be pretty ancient then?’

‘I
suppose he is, but he never forgets to send the wine.’

‘Felix
said he’d drunk a similar wine that cost five hundred pounds a bottle and the Count
must send crates of it every year.’

‘That’s
right, except during the Second War, when transport was a problem. He always
sends half a dozen crates of the ordinary and one of the good stuff.’

‘He
must be very rich if he can afford to send all that, and generous.’

‘He
is very wealthy. He has a chateau perched on a hill with magnificent views all
along the river – you should see it – and he is generous to a fault. Mind you
he wouldn’t have been either if it hadn’t been for the old fellow.’

‘Why?
What did he do?’

‘I’ll
tell you what I know,’ she said. ‘Years ago, when the old fellow had a week’s
leave and we visited the Count, he told me something of what had occurred. The
Count is a charming fellow, by the way, with lovely white teeth; you’d like
him. During the war he was a French Army lieutenant and was marching back from
the front with his section when a shell struck the duckboards, throwing them
all into liquid mud. Men would often drown if they fell in and that would probably
have been their fate.’

‘It
must have been horrible,’ I said, shuddering.

‘It
must have been, and all of them would probably have died had the old fellow not
been passing and pulled them out. Afterwards, an officer reprimanded him for
losing his boots.’

‘That’s
typical!’ I said, clicking my tongue.