Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (18 page)

I'd
fully expected Hobbes to want to talk about the break-in after tea but, to my
surprise, Mrs Goodfellow, bringing out a Scrabble board, invited me to join
them in a game. I agreed. I was, after all, a journalist, one who'd increased his
word power with
Reader's Digest
often enough. Though my confidence was
high, humiliation was on its way as they thrashed me using words I'd never
heard. Early on I challenged Hobbes over 'quitch', which he claimed was a type
of grass, giving him a triple word score, and demanded a dictionary. He proved to
be correct and, furthermore had just ruined my next move; all I could do was
add an 's' to the word 'rat'. 'Rats.' At least it summed up my feelings. When
Mrs Goodfellow followed my brilliant addition of 'san' to a 'g' to get 'sang'
by expanding it to 'sanguineous' I knew I was in trouble. We played four games
over the evening, Hobbes and Mrs Goodfellow winning two each, while I came a
poor third every time. And that was to flatter myself, for in the final game,
my total score was less than either of them achieved in a single move and, even
worse, I was convinced they were trying to let me do well, giving me plenty of
opportunities that I didn't, or couldn't, take.

'Bad
luck, Andy.' Hobbes sounded sympathetic. 'Sometimes the letters run against
you. Anyway, we're older than you and have had longer to pick up vocabulary.'

I
nodded. 'Well done both of you.' At least I could play at being a good loser. I
went up to bed shortly afterwards with a mug of cocoa.

'Make
sure you clean your teeth when you've finished.' Mrs Goodfellow looked stern.
'We wouldn't want them rotting away would we?'

'No,
we wouldn't.' I made a special trip to the bathroom just to make sure she
didn't have an excuse for leaping out on me. Then I slept until late on Monday
morning.

Once
again, fresh clothes had been left on the dressing table. I supposed I ought to
thank the old girl for that and for the meals, and for making my bed, too. When
I was enjoying a leisurely bath, I noticed the sander still tucked under the
sink and I wondered what Hobbes used it for. I wondered what was behind the
door in the cellar. I wondered what was up in the loft. I wondered if I'd been
born under a wondering star.

Though
I'd only glimpsed inside the loft, I'd had an eyeful of colours and pictures.
There was much to look into in this house, yet, now he'd entrusted me with a
key, I had access all the time.

So
did Mrs Goodfellow. The bathroom door swung open. 'No need to get up, dear.'
She beamed her toothless smile, flicking a duster around.

I
dropped back into the water, covering myself with my hands, squirming. 'Do you
mind?'

'Of
course not, dear.' She fixed her bright little eyes on me and chuckled. 'And
don't mind me either. I'll only be a few minutes.'

'Couldn't
you dust later? It's rather embarrassing.'

She
tittered. 'From what I've seen, there's no reason for you to be embarrassed,
dear. Now, Mr Goodfellow, he might have been embarrassed.'

'Mrs
Goodfellow, please!'

'Oh
alright, dear. Don't get into a state. I'll go and dust the old fellow's room.
He's out already, you know.' She sat on the corner of the bath. 'Do you know,
someone broke into the church last night? He's gone to investigate and he's
upset. He doesn't like crimes on his patch and there have been a few recently.
Now, the other year, there was a spate of car break-ins and—'

'Mrs
Goodfellow,' I squeaked, 'please!'

'Oh,
sorry, dear, I'm going.' She left me, closing the door behind her; her grin was
the last thing to vanish, like she was a toothless, wrinkled, Cheshire cat.

Washing
in haste, getting out the bath, I dried myself and scurried to my room where I
tried to dress while leaning against the door. I could hear her flapping round
in the bathroom as I went downstairs. At least I thought I'd heard her, for
when I walked into the kitchen, she was stirring a copper pot.

'All
dressed and safe from prying eyes, eh?'

I
nodded, forcing a laugh to show how nonchalant I felt.

'Lovely
teeth,' she cackled. 'Now would you like to get them stuck into something?'

'Like
what?' I asked, nervously.

'Like
bacon and eggs with mushrooms. It's what the old fellow had.'

'Mmm,
it sounds lovely,' I said. I was wrong. It was better than that; it was divine.
The scent of the frying mushrooms started me drooling and, when the bacon and
eggs had been added, I feared my mouth would spill over. It tasted even better
than it smelled and then I stuffed myself with toast and her superb marmalade,
all washed down with fresh orange juice and as much tea as I could fit in. A little
embarrassment seemed a small payment for such a breakfast.

'The
old fellow asked what you were going to do today,' said Mrs Goodfellow when, having
finished eating, my mouth became available for talking. 'He says he'll be down
the church for a while if you want to meet him there. Mind you, he said it a
while back when you were sleeping like a puppy. Then he said he'd have to go to
Pigton, so, if he wasn't at the church, he'd be somewhere else and you were to
do what you wanted to do. He reckoned you had to go to the
Bugle
sometime to get a name changed on a cheque, so he wouldn't be worried if you
didn't show up. And he asked, if you were in the
Bugle's
office, if
you'd find out where someone called Philip Waring lives. And—'

'Say
no more,' I said, desperately trying to hold back the torrent of words. 'I'd
better go.'

Standing
up, I nodded and walked away, stepping out into the street, shutting the front
door behind me, jumping down the steps. A flurry of sleet spattered the icy
pavement at my feet and the cold wind had returned. Despite shivering, I was
too proud to go back and pick up the old overcoat I'd found in the wardrobe. Since
I had to pass the church on the way to the
Bugle
, it struck me as a good
idea to look in. Hobbes might still be there and, even if he'd already gone,
someone should be able to tell me what had happened. And if no one could then,
maybe, I'd pick up sufficient divine inspiration to deal with Editorsaurus Rex.
I'd bet bloody Phil, the editor's blue-eyed boy, never had problems like mine.
Bastards the both of them. Still, I might be able to find Phil's address and
then I'd do my best to ensure he had a really hard time at Hobbes's hands and,
with luck, at his feet too.

Cold
thoughts almost took my mind off the cold wind and, besides, it was only a
short walk to the church. I was still glad to rush inside, pushing through a
party of tourists, grateful for shelter. I can't claim I knew the church all
that well, as I'd only been in once before, during a sudden downpour when returning
from the pub. The dark, sombre atmosphere combined with the massive, mediaeval
architecture and ancient treasures had impressed me then and still did.

A
guy in a dog collar minced by. 'Excuse me, Vicar,' I said, 'has Inspector
Hobbes left already?'

'Indeed
he has,' he replied in a voice often described as fruity.

'Oh
well. I'd hoped to catch him. I hear there was a break-in last night?'

'I'm
afraid so.'

'Was
anything taken, Vicar?'

He
nodded.

'What?'

'Who
wants to know?'

'I
do. My name's Andy Caplet and I've been helping the Inspector for the last few
days.'

'You
don't look like a policeman and, I'm not the vicar, by the way, I'm the curate.
The name's Kevin Godley; just call me Kev.'

I
shook the hand he held out. It was cold, limp and flabby like a dead man's and
gripped for rather longer than I liked. I jerked my arm away.

'I'm
not a policeman. I'm just hanging out with Hobbes.'

'Oh,
I see. A camp follower.'

I
wasn't too chuffed with the stress he put on the word 'camp'.

I
asked again. 'Can you tell me what was taken?'

'I
can. Some lost sheep has swiped our Roman cup.'

'A
Roman cup? Was it valuable?'

He
nodded. 'I should think so. It was made of gold.'

'Wasn't
it protected?'

'Yes,
of course. It was displayed in a safe built into the wall, with a bullet-proof
glass front until someone got it out last night.'

'How?'

He
shrugged. 'They ignored the glass and cut through the mortar. Your Inspector
mentioned an angle grinder but I don't really know what that is.'

'I
think it's a tool.' I scratched my head. 'What's this cup look like anyway?'

Kev
nodded towards a desk by the main door, where there were piles of books and
pamphlets for sale. 'There's a photo in one of those pamphlets. Now, if you'll
excuse me, I really must go, I've got a service to arrange.'

'It's
OK,' I said. 'For Vespers?' I felt rather proud at my display of ecclesiastical
knowledge.

'No.'
Kev grinned. 'I meant a service for my motorbike and it's a Honda, not a Vespa.
I can't abide those scooters with their piddly little motors. No, give me
seven-fifty CCs throbbing between my thighs and I'm a happy curate. See you,
Andy.' He patted my shoulder and walked away.

He
disappeared behind a screen and I turned towards the desk, flicking through a
pamphlet until coming across a photograph of the Roman cup, a large,
heavy-looking goblet, plain, apart from a few foreign words in the form of a
cross on the base. The pamphlet cost 50p and I was, literally, penniless but,
as the severe, blue-rinsed woman in charge was occupied with a visitor, I
folded the pamphlet, slipping it surreptitiously into my trouser pocket.

'That's
fifty pee, sir.' The severe woman glared at me, her angry eyes glittering
through horn-rimmed glasses.

'What
is?' It was a feeble bluff but I'd never stolen anything before and I could
feel the adrenalin coursing through my veins.

'The
pamphlet in your pocket. Please pay for it or put it back. If not, I'll call
the police.'

Panicking,
I ran for it and, once I'd started, I couldn't stop. It was a stupid thing to
do and I wouldn't dream of doing anything like it again and I would have paid
if I could have and, anyway, the pamphlet was overpriced. In truth, I had no
excuse – and I didn't even manage to keep it. It must have fallen from my
pocket when, barging through a group of pensioners by the front door, I stumbled
up the steps, before fleeing down The Shambles, weaving through the hordes of
shoppers. Then, stunned by my own folly, heart pounding, I ducked down an
alley, scrambling over a tall wooden fence, cowering in the backyard of a
house. Out of sight, I got my breath back and listened for any sign of pursuit.
I was just beginning to believe I'd got away with it when someone let the dog
out.

It
was a big animal, with rough, black hair and gleaming white fangs, and a deep
prejudice against trespassers in tweed and I amazed myself at how fast I could
move with a beast with the bulk and temperament of an angry bear snapping at my
vitals. I jumped up, straddling the top of the fence, pulling up my leg before
the brute could take a chunk out of it. The creature howled its disappointment
and I thought I was safe. However, the fence was obviously in league with him.
With a crack and a lurch, it buckled and collapsed beneath me. For a moment dog
and I stared at each other. Then it gave a deep, resounding woof and I took to
my heels with a yelp of terror.

I
put it down to the beneficial effects of all my recent exercise that I made it
from the alley before he caught me and brought me down at the feet of the
gangly policeman. The severe woman was with him.

She
pointed at me. 'That's him, officer, he's the one. Arrest him.'

The
policeman, grabbing the dog's collar, pulled him off, handing him to his owner
who had just emerged from the house, his fat red face quivering with rage.

'That's
him.' He pointed at me. 'Arrest him for breaking my fence and cruelty to
animals.'

'But
…' I said. It was too late.

My
hands were suddenly and surprisingly restrained by handcuffs and I was being led
through the streets by the policeman, escorted by an angry woman, a furious man
and a frustrated dog. People enjoy a good spectacle and I soon became the
centre of a crowd, as wild and inaccurate rumours flew around. My sole
consolation was that the excited dog, deprived of my blood, turned on his
master, sinking his teeth into a fatted calf. The fat man, bleeding, roared and
smacked the dog round its ears, while the woman denounced me as Sorenchester's
answer to the Antichrist.

'What
have
you been doing, Andy?' asked a soft, familiar voice.

I
turned and smiled weakly. 'Oh hi, Ingrid.' I made an attempt at nonchalance.
'It's just a misunderstanding. I'm sure it'll be sorted out soon.'

'He
robbed the church!' the severe woman shouted.

'He
smashed my fence down and he's been tormenting my dog. Aghh!' The angry man
grew angrier as the dog nipped his other calf. 'Get off you brute.' He aimed a
kick, losing the crowd's sympathy.