Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (47 page)

Hobbes,
opening his lips, tilted the glass, my own taste buds anticipating his
pleasure.

My
next move surprised both of us. Leaping up, my chair falling, clattering, to
the ground, I shoved the glass from his hands, the wine splashing over us, the
glass shattering onto the kitchen floor. He stared at me, then at his stained
shirt front and then at the stem of the glass, still in his great fist.

‘Have
you recently joined the Temperance Movement?’ he asked.

‘No
… I think … umm … that is … the wine might be poisoned.’

‘No!’
He roared.

I
cringed, expecting storm-force anger, but the shout was directed at the dog,
who was licking at the spillage. Dregs backed away, assuming his martyred look.

‘Why
do you think that?’

‘I
don’t know. It might be.’

‘It
never has been before.’

‘No,
but I think … umm … Felix broke into the cellar last night. Someone was banging
and I think it was him knocking the door in, because Mrs Goodfellow says there’s
dust down there and there shouldn’t be any. I reckon he’s poisoned the wine.
Violet said he’d done what had to be done and I think she meant getting you out
the way.’

‘It
smelt alright,’ he said, dipping his finger in the mess and touching his
tongue, ‘and it doesn’t taste as if anything’s wrong with it.’

‘Perhaps
he used an odourless, colourless, tasteless poison.’

‘Ah
yes, one unknown to medical science. There are a lot of them about.’

‘Are
there?’

‘No.
Anyway, Dregs seems fine.’

Dregs,
wagging his tail on hearing his name, was not the sort to hold a grudge.

‘But
Felix,’ I said, ‘might have poisoned some other bottles.’

‘Let’s
take a look.’

Hobbes
and I went down the steps. When Dregs stopped at the top, refusing to come any
further, I gave Hobbes a significant look that he ignored. On first glance,
nothing seemed wrong. However, as we passed the wine racks, we could see the
tunnel door’s lock had been smashed, a sledgehammer had been discarded in the
corner, and the coal pile had been shoved aside. I had no doubt who was responsible.
Hobbes, growling, looked around. The wine appeared untouched, except for
several bottles of the best stuff having disappeared.

He
was totting up how many, when we discovered the bomb.

Sniffing
at it, pointing to the electronic counter wired to a number of off-brown
sticks, he looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose that shows how long we’ve got before
it goes off.’

‘Umm
…’ I replied, hypnotised by the flashing digits, ‘I guess so. Is it counting in
minutes or seconds?’

‘Seconds
by the looks of it.’

‘So
we’ve got thirty seconds. What are you going to do?’

‘Twenty-five
seconds now. Let me think.’

‘OK.’
Oddly, I felt quite calm.

It
read twenty seconds when, grabbing the bomb, tucking it under his arm like a
rugby ball, he charged across the cellar, and plunged down the steps into the
tunnels.

Time
seemed almost to slow down, though I was horribly aware it was running out far
too fast. I hesitated, torn between wanting to help Hobbes, realising I couldn’t,
wondering whether I should make an attempt to get Mrs G and Dregs out of the
house, though there was no time, and an urge to save myself.

Before
I’d made up my mind, Hobbes bounded back into the cellar. On landing, he
turned, jamming the door into place.

He’d
got rid of the bomb. ‘What did …?’

A
tongue of hot red flame hurled him and the door across the cellar and, though
it all happened so fast, I’m sure he whooped just before he slammed into the
back wall. There was a deafening roar, a flash of heat and a rumble.

I
picked myself up, coughing in the dust haze.

‘Well,’
said Hobbes, standing up, rubbing his elbow, ‘that would have been more fun if
the wall hadn’t got in the way.’

Dregs
rushed downstairs, barking and sneezing, Mrs Goodfellow close behind. Looking
around, she shook her head. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made.’

‘It
was a bomb,’ I said. ‘A great, big, bloody bomb!’

‘Language,
Andy,’ said Hobbes, his face blackened like a coal miner’s. ‘I’ll clean myself
up and finish my dinner. Maybe you’ll let me enjoy my glass of wine in peace
this time.’

I stood there dumbfounded until Mrs G,
setting to with dustpan and broom, chivvied me out the way. She didn’t appear
at all concerned that we might all have been killed.

That
was pretty much the end of it, as far as we were concerned. We never heard any
further news of Felix or Violet, but every time I read a story about a
mysterious big cat sighting I wondered and, though Hobbes reckoned they’d
probably gone abroad to continue their horrible schemes, I had a sneaking hope
I’d reformed her.

The
Bashems and Mr Bullimore, having picked up a small fortune in insurance money
for the disastrous festival, continued to live on Loop’s Farm. Though we became
friends, I never felt quite comfortable if left on my own with them, especially
after dark. Some fears were fundamental.

One lasting outcome was that the tunnel
leading from the cellar collapsed. I was glad nothing could use it anymore, but
I think it upset Hobbes. Another effect was that a section of Blackdog Street
subsided, leaving a hole three metres deep. Although the council and gas board
looked into it, they never got to the bottom of the mystery. They did,
eventually, fill it in.

The
day after the explosion, I began writing this memoir, thinking it might help me
come to terms with losing her. It didn’t.

Coming soon …

Inspector Hobbes and the Root of all Evil

unhuman III

Wilkie
Martin

Andy,
Hobbes and Mrs Goodfellow are surprised by the unexpected arrival of a large,
disruptive American woman, invoking memories of Hobbes’s past. Gold robberies,
a skeleton and a vampire come together, to create a puzzle for Hobbes, one in
which he needs help from some unexpected sources.

What
is Sir Gerald Paynes’s secret? Why does Hobbes think a collection of ordinary
rocks is so significant? And has Andy found true love at last?

The Witcherley Book Company

ISBN
9780957635142 (paperback)
ISBN 9780957635159 (ebook)

Also available

Inspector Hobbes and the Blood

unhuman I

Wilkie
Martin

When
the hapless Andy Caplet, then an inept local reporter, is first assigned to
Inspector Hobbes he has no idea what horrors his future holds. Besides coming
to terms with Hobbes’s weirdness and with the bizarre eccentricities of Mrs
Goodfellow, he soon realises that not everyone is what they appear to be.

Who
is behind the crime wave in town? Is it possible to catch vampirism from false
teeth? And why is the secret to the mystery in the blood? These are just some
of the questions Andy must answer as he struggles to make sense of this new world
he’s been plunged into.

The Witcherley Book Company

ISBN
9780957635104 (paperback)
ISBN 9780957635111 (ebook)

Acknowledgements

Once
again, I would like to thank the past and present members of Catchword for
their support, guidance and encouragement: Geoffrey Adams, Gill Boyd, Liz
Carew, Jennifer Cryer, Jean Dickenson, Rachel Fixsen, Susan Gibbs, Richard
Hensley, Rhiannon Hopkins, Nick John, Sarah King, Dr Anne Lauppe-Dunbar, Dr
Rona Laycock, Peter Maguire, Jan Petrie and Susannah White.

I
would like to thank Kelly Owen at Ultimate Proof Ltd for copy-editing and for
proofreading, and Cathy Helms at Avalon Graphics for the cover.

Writers
in the Brewery and the members of Gloucestershire Writers’ Network have also
provided much appreciated support.

Finally,
a huge thank you to my family, to Julia, and to The Witcherley Book Company.

Wilkie Martin

Wilkie
Martin’s first novel
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood
, also published by
The Witcherley Book Company, was shortlisted for the Impress Prize for New
Writers in 2012 under its original title:
Inspector Hobbes
. As well as
novels, Wilkie writes short stories and silly poems, some of which are on
YouTube. Like his characters, he relishes a good curry, which he enjoys
cooking. In his spare time, he is a qualified scuba-diving instructor, and a
guitar twanger who should be stopped.

Born
in Nottingham, he went to school in Sutton Coldfield, studied at the University
of Leeds, worked in Cheltenham for 25 years, and now lives in the Cotswolds
with Julia, his partner of 30 years.

Contact Wilkie Martin

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Wilkie's website
www.wilkiemartin.com

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Published in United Kingdom
by The Witcherley Book Company

Copyright
© 2013 Martin J Wilkinson and Julia How.

The
right of Martin J Wilkinson (Wilkie Martin) to be
identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
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