Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (38 page)

My
skin, apart from the odd, additional scrape, had survived intact, yet most of
the buttons from my coat, jacket and shirt were gone and my clothes were
flapping in the breeze. After a few moments to recover, I had what I considered
a great idea. Stripping my top half down to my vest, I made another attempt on
the window. Though it was still a squeeze, after grunting and groaning and
sweating like a wrestler, I began to slide through.

Then
I stopped. The knob thing had snagged me again and my entire weight was
suspended on my trouser waistband. I writhed and wriggled until, with a long,
slow, zip-rending rip, I slid forwards, shedding my trousers as a snake sheds
its skin. Gently, sedately even, I slithered onto the kitchen floor, looking back
to where the tattered remnants of a once fine piece of tailoring fluttered in
the breeze.

At
such times it's important to count your blessings. I could count one: my
underwear had survived. Apart from that, my situation was desperate. I glanced
down at my muddy shoes, tartan socks and the long white underpants and realised
I could count two blessings: they were clean on that morning. Still, if anyone
caught me, how could I explain skulking in my ex-boss's house in my underwear?
Besides, I still had to get home somehow. My face glowed as I imagined the
photos in the
Bugle
and the sarcastic comments PC Wilkes would throw at
me in the cell. Why did these things keep happening to me? All I'd ever wanted
was a quiet life and I didn't deserve this. At least, though, I was in a place
where I could wash my filthy hands and have a glass of water, both of which I
did.

Then,
with a lump of fear in my stomach and a cringe in my walk, I began to prowl
through the house.

I
found Rex in the next room, lying flat on his back on the deep, soft cream
carpet, an empty gin bottle clutched to his heart, looking as peaceful as a
sleeping baby, though no infant could fill the room with the noises he was
producing. He snored, gurgling and farting like a flatulent hippopotamus and I
doubted he'd regain consciousness for many hours. Retrieving my carrier bag, I
left him to sleep it off, though, before going, I made free with his drinks
cabinet. Opening a bottle of whisky, pouring a considerable measure into a
crystal tumbler, I gulped it down. The liquid fire, searing its way towards my
stomach, felt good.

I
carried out a rapid search downstairs, where everything, apart from Rex, was
quiet. Then, finding myself in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, I began to
climb into the darkness, my footsteps muffled by the deep pale-yellow carpet,
an admirable aid to sneaking, or so I thought until, reaching a landing where
the stairs turned at a right angle, I glanced back. I'd left a muddy trail and
there was nothing I could do about it, so wiping my feet, I carried on to the
first floor, where a brass candelabra with three flickering candles rested on a
small wooden table, providing the only illumination. I picked it up, surprised by
its weight, and took it with me, since I feared turning on a light would draw
attention to me. Candlelit exploration of an old unfamiliar house where I had
no right to be was not a soothing occupation, every movement of the flickering
shadows, every creak of a floorboard, making my heart race.

I
looked into three empty bedrooms before finding the one in which I'd seen
Narcisa and Tony. A flowery scent, overly sweet and cloying, seemed strongest
by a small bottle on the dressing table. When I removed the stopper, I sneezed.
It was a powerful scent, yet familiar. Averting my eyes from the crumpled white
sheets on the four-poster bed, I noticed an ancient leather-bound book on a
small table at its side. Putting down the candelabra, I opened it, a sheet of
paper fluttering to the carpet.

It was a letter, written on Sorenchester
Museum paper. Picking it up, I read:

Dear
Mrs Witcherley,

I
have acquired this volume, which I believe to be the one detailing the ritual
in which you expressed an interest. My asking price for this exceedingly fine
and rare copy is £10,000 in cash. In addition, I have knowledge of a fine
bracelet with an established provenance to the Order of the Dragon. I am
confident I can put it your way, for the right price. I must once again
emphasise the importance of treating any such transactions in strict
confidence.

Yours
sincerely,

Ray
Biggs, Curator.

Hobbes's
suspicion about Mr Biggs appeared to have been justified. Replacing the letter,
I examined the book. It was made of parchment or something, with heavy, black
gothic printing and a smell of dust and age. On the first page was a woodcut of
a castle, familiar to me from the label on the Romanian beer bottle and, a
couple of pages further on, I came across an illustration of a dragon with its
tail in its mouth. The text was incomprehensible, in a foreign language, yet, on
seeing the word 'Dracul' several times, the hairs on the back of my neck rose
and stiffened.

My
worry and fear levels rising to critical, the animal part of my brain tried to
convince me that Narcisa was a vampire and that I should run away. Though a
more rational part tried to point out that vampires were fictional, I couldn't
stop myself wondering if I'd ever seen her in full daylight. My teeth were
chattering, my mouth was as dry as chalk and I was trembling all over. In
fairness, I was in a weird Romanian woman's bedroom, lit by only by flickering
candlelight and I'd just discovered a book, apparently about vampires. Furthermore,
convinced she was a thief, I hoped that was the worst of it, though I had a
terrible fear she'd done something dreadful to Hobbes. Finally, I was dressed
only in my underwear, which always puts one at a disadvantage.

In
the circumstances, I think my nerves were entirely justified. Sitting down on
the chair by the dressing table, I glanced in the mirror, shocked by how scared
I looked, unable to suppress a paralysing horror that something was creeping up
behind, yet, when I forced myself to turn and face it, there was nothing.

I
heard a click and a stair creaked. Someone was coming. Or was it something? Wanting
to scream and run, I made do with diving under the bed and cowering like a
coward.

'Where
did you say you put it?' shouted Tony.

'On
the table on the landing,' Narcisa replied from downstairs, 'and bring the book
too – it's in the bedroom.'

'The
candelabra's not here. Anyway, haven't we got enough already?'

'Don't
be stupid. Just fetch it.'

'I'm
not being stupid.' Cursing softly, he entered the bedroom and shouted, 'it was
in your room all the time.'

His
footsteps drawing close, I held my breath. When they moved away, the
candlelight faded, leaving me in utter darkness and confusion. Tony had come
from downstairs and Narcisa was downstairs, though I was certain only Rex had
been down there. Where had they been hiding?

'There's
mud on the stairs,' said Tony. 'Someone's in the house.'

My
whole body going into an ecstasy of terror, I thought I was going to be sick. I
wanted a wee; I wanted a crucifix; I wanted garlic; I wanted Buffy the Vampire
slayer; most of all, I wanted to be out of there.

'It'll
just be Fatso staggering around drunk,' said Narcisa. 'Now, hurry up. It's
nearly time.'

I
lay still until I regained control of my limbs. What was it nearly time for?

I
crawled out, creeping towards the staircase, my legs wobbling as I stood up and
tiptoed downstairs, which was now in darkness, apart from the glimmer of a
distant street lamp lighting up the porch and hall. The mystery of Narcisa and
Tony's whereabouts held no interest for me just then. I wanted out. Slipping
into the porch, fumbling with the latch, almost sobbing with relief, I opened
the front door, shivering as my body was exposed to the night air. I was about
to run when, hearing muffled sounds from below, I realised they were coming
from the cellars. I could have kicked myself; of course a house of this age
would have cellars. I just hadn't seen the door.

The
revelation didn't stop me fleeing. What did stop me was the chanting of deep
male voices from below ground, making my legs all wobbly again. How many people
were down there? Had I stumbled into some sort of Satanic Mass? Then, to my
surprise, I chuckled, recognising the chanting as the same recording I'd heard
the ghouls playing. Somehow, I found it soothing, because the ghouls, though terrifying,
had as Hobbes pointed out, not been so bad. Not really. In fact, other than trying
to bury me alive, they'd been pretty harmless. With any luck vampires, or Satanists,
were similar.

Forcing
myself back inside, fortifying my courage with another raid on the whisky
bottle, I searched for the cellar door, finding it under the stairs, in plain
view, if only I'd been looking.

As
I put my ear against it to listen, it clicked open and I stumbled through onto
a creaky wooden staircase, cool, damp air and an earthy odour surrounding me.
There was light down there, candlelight, to judge from the flickering. I
swallowed, tiptoeing down, as the chanting grew louder. A familiar scent struck
me, the same cloying, flowery scent as in Narcisa's room, though heavier, if it
were possible.

On
reaching the bottom, I saw I'd entered a vaulted cellar, similar to, though
even larger than Hobbes's. To start with, I was amazed at the quantity of wine
down there. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of bottles were laid to rest in racks
on the smooth limestone floor.

The
light emanated from an archway at the far end. Creeping towards it, my
footsteps echoing treacherously, I hoped the chanting would drown them out.

Flattening
myself against the wall by the arch, taking a vast breath, I poked my head
round the corner, jerking back, dazzled and shaking, as if I'd gone down with
malaria. On the other side was a cavernous chamber packed with burning candles,
where a forest of sturdy limestone buttresses supported a low ceiling. In the
middle, in a space like a clearing, stood a stone altar. Next to it, on a
wooden table, the Roman cup reflected red in the candlelight. What had scared
me most, though, was the long, naked, glinting dagger, lying with its point to
the cup. Though I'd not seen or heard Narcisa or Tony down there, in my
imagination they were lurking in every shadow, waiting to do me harm. An
incongruous thought occurred: I'd always enjoyed watching this sort of thing in
films and on telly. It wasn't the same in real life.

Curiosity,
wrestling with cowardice, got it, rather to my astonishment, in an arm-lock,
yet without quite gaining total submission. The chanting rang even louder,
muffling my clumsy footsteps, which was good, reducing my chances of hearing
movement, which wasn't. As I slipped into the chamber and cringed behind the
nearest pillar, I heard a cry of despair from a man, though not from Hobbes. It
turned into a scream, taking all my strength, even as it blew the fog of trivia
from my mind.

The
cry echoed above the chanting. 'Water! Please! Oh Christ, it burns.'

Though
pain and fear had distorted it, I knew the voice and any remaining animosity
washed away in a flood of sympathy. It was Phil Waring and he was in big trouble.
Fighting an impulse to rush blindly to the rescue, I told myself that getting
both of us into a mess would not help. Despite my innate cowardice suggesting
immediate flight, I steadied myself, acknowledging the importance of finding
out precisely what I was up against, and where he was, since his cries, echoing
round the smooth curved walls, confused my senses. As I became aware of other
voices, quieter and indistinct, I wished I had Hobbes with me.

I
sneaked a glance round the pillar, seeing no one, although a dark painting of a
mediaeval king, hanging in an alcove behind the altar, made me start. Recalling
Mrs Tomkins, the cook, telling Hobbes that Mr Roman had sold a creepy painting,
I could easily believe it was this one, for there was nothing but malice in the
King's eyes, nothing but threat in the way he held the long, naked, glinting
dagger over a golden chalice. Dagger and chalice looked identical to the ones
on the altar.

I
shuddered as the chanting faded away. In the ensuing stillness, footsteps
approached.

'Move!'
yelled Tony.

My
heart leapt and, for a moment, I thought I'd been discovered but he was
shouting at Phil, whom he was goading into a stumbling walk with a spiked pole.
His strange gait seemed to be more because he couldn't see than because of the
chains weighing down his wrists and ankles. It was almost as strange to see him
unshaven, tie-less and dirty, with sweat stains around his armpits, as to see
him in a dungeon. He flinched as the chanting started again.

I
shivered, wishing I'd been more careful with my clothes, that I'd had the sense
to bring the whisky bottle, something far more useful than the leg of lamb I
was still carting around like an idiot.

Tony,
enveloped in a long, heavy, grey robe, with a deep hood, and only his beaky
nose jutting out, reminded me of a vulture. Narcisa was close behind, wrapped
in the deep folds of the purple gown I'd seen earlier, walking slowly,
majestically, with bowed head, her arms folded across her chest, holding the
book I'd seen in the bedroom.