Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (39 page)

Tony
forced Phil to lie on the altar. Staying in the shadows, sneaking a little
closer, praying they wouldn't see me, I slipped behind another pillar. When I
risked a look, Phil was stretched on his back as Tony secured his chains.
Narcisa stood over him, facing me. I jerked back, amazed she hadn't noticed me.
Taking a moment for a better look around the chamber, I noted the small barred
cell at the far end, presumably where they'd been holding Phil, but saw no sign
of Hobbes. I couldn't grasp why they'd made Phil a prisoner, though it was not
difficult to surmise that whatever they were planning would not be to his
benefit. Only one person could put a stop to whatever was going to happen. Me.

I
risked another glance. Narcisa was in the same position, Tony at her side. A
few candles flickered close to where Phil was writhing uselessly against his
chains yet, otherwise, the air was still. Narcisa raised her skinny arms, the
heavy ring on her finger and the dragon bracelet on her wrist glinted; the
chanting stopped.

She
spoke into the sudden silence, reading from the book, her voice tremulous at
first, as if she, too, was nervous. I couldn't understand the foreign words.

'What
are you going to do?' Phil's voice cracked into a squeak.

She
ignored him. Tony sniggered, glanced at her and went quiet.

'You
can't do this.' Anger and fear competed in Phil's voice.

'Shut
it,' said Tony.

Narcisa's
incantation grew more confident, powerful, drowning out Phil's protestations,
as I cursed myself, wishing I'd thought to pick up some sort of weapon in my
search round the house. I didn't like the look of things one little bit, and
the glittering dagger was never far from my mind. There was something in the way
it sliced the light to suggest its blade was razor sharp: not something you'd
choose for cleaning your nails but ideal for a human sacrifice.

'Hand
me the sanguinary chalice,' said Narcisa.

'The
what?' asked Tony from the darkness of his hood.

'The
sanguinary chalice.'

'Uh
… you mean this old cup thing?'

'Just
give me the bloody cup.'

'OK,
keep your hair on.' He handed it to her.

'What
do you mean by that?' Her voice was sharp.

'Nothing,
just be cool. Can I open a bottle of plonk now?'

'If
you must.' Narcisa, raising the cup in both hands, continued speaking in the
strange, droning language. I saw she was wearing the gleaming dragon ring on
her middle finger.

Holding
my breath, I squeezed deeper into the shadows, as Tony walked past towards the
wine cellar, returning with a bottle, opening it with the corkscrew on his
penknife. She lowered the cup, placing it on the altar by Phil's head.

'Hand
me the Dagger of Tepes,' she said.

'Uh
… the big knife?' asked Tony.

'Of
course.'

Picking
it up by the blade, presenting the hilt to her, he yelped as she grasped it.

'Ow!
You nearly had my bloody finger off. You'd better be careful or you might
really hurt someone.' He groped inside his robe and wrapped a handkerchief
round his hand. The grubby cloth darkened.

'What
are you doing?' Phil blinked at the dagger through red-rimmed eyes.

My
eyes watered in sympathy.

'Shut
up!' shouted Tony.

'It's
all right,' said Narcisa. 'There's no reason why he shouldn't know. Not now. Mr
Waring, I must apologise for detaining you like this, but you did poke your
nose into my affairs at an awkward time. Yet, in its way, your arrival has
proved most opportune. The ritual demands blood and your sacrifice will give me
new life, so I must thank you.'

'Mrs
Witcherley, what are you talking about?'

'Simply,
you will die for me. Greater love has no man than to lay down his life.'

'You're
going to murder me?' Unsurprisingly, Phil sounded terrified.

'No,
not murder, sacrifice. Don't worry, the blade is razor sharp, as Igor has discovered
to his cost. You'll not feel much and the expenditure of your blood will not be
in vain. Think of it as an honour.'

Phil
said nothing, shaking even more than I was.

'What
d'you mean, calling me Igor?' asked Tony, whining. 'That's an insult that is.
It's adding insult to injury. My finger's bloody sore.'

'Just
a joke,' she said.

'But
you're not really going to kill him are you? You're just going to frighten him?
Make sure he shuts up?'

'Oh,
wake up, you idiot. Do you really imagine I'd go to these lengths to frighten a
journalist? If I'd only wanted to shut him up, I'd have got Rex to have a word
with him. My husband is a fat old goat but he has his uses.'

'You
told me no one was going to get hurt. You said red wine would do as well as
blood.'

'You
heard what you wanted to hear. Now, be quiet, I need to concentrate.' She
resumed her chanting.

'No.'
Tony faced up to her, pointing his finger. 'You called me an idiot and that's
not nice. I thought we had something together, you and me.'

'Think
what you want and be quiet.'

'I
won't. You lied to me.'

'You
were useful. That's enough.'

'You
used me.'

'If
I did, you had your fun and were handsomely paid. Rex's bank account is another
of his good features.'

I
wish I could claim I was planning a brave and intelligent intervention but, the
truth is, I was cowering in the darkness, too terrified to move, yet holding a
faint hope that Tony would somehow prevail.

'It's
not right,' he whined. 'You said you loved me and that we were made for each
other. It's why I helped you steal everything. It wasn't the money.'

Unable
to believe his claim, to my horror, I snorted with disdain.

'What
was that? I heard someone. Honest.'

'It
doesn't matter,' said Narcisa. 'Just shut up and let me get on.'

'But
someone's in here.'

I
retreated deeper into the shadows, awaiting discovery and whatever came of it.

'It'll
just be Hobbes,' she laughed.

'Hobbes?
What d'you mean Hobbes?' Tony, pulling his hood back, stared around wildly.

'Mr
Waring wasn't the only one snooping into my business. Hobbes turned up too,
shortly after he'd let you go.'

'Where
is he?'

'That's
not your concern, he'll not interfere. Now shut up.'

So,
Hobbes was down there and I couldn't guess what she might have done to him to
be so confident. I stole towards the very back of the chamber, where there were
no candles and the gloom became blackness. The heavy, almost narcotic, scent of
flowers faded and I became aware, ever so faintly at first, of the feral odour
I associated with Hobbes.

As
Narcisa resumed her chanting, the strange words echoing hypnotically round the
chamber, I hesitated, torn between trying to find Hobbes and trying to rescue
Phil. The latter was in imminent peril, assuming Narcisa meant what she said,
and I had no doubt she intended to kill, yet Hobbes would be able to stop her
far better than I could. In all honesty, I'm not a fighter; I doubted I could
overcome Tony and, as for Narcisa, something about her made me suspect she knew
how to hurt a man. Besides, she'd got the pepper spray and the dagger. Again, I
dithered, though I was starting to think that, if I couldn't find Hobbes very
soon, I would have to do something.

Do
or die – it wasn't a happy prospect.

'You're
going too far,' yelled Tony, sounding angry and scared. 'Stop it now, or I'll
stop you myself.'

Narcisa
laughed. 'You're too late.'

Clasping
the dagger with both hands, she raised it above her head. Phil screamed.

Tony,
as fast as a weasel, caught her wrist, forcing her backwards. The hood of her
gown fell back and for a moment her blonde wig clung to the top of her skull
before sliding to the floor. Tony grunted, maintaining his grip, making her cry
out, making her drop the dagger, barely managing to twist his foot out of the
way as it stuck in the floor. His movement allowed her to break free, to pull
something from her gown. Her back being towards me, I guessed she'd gone for her
pepper spray.

Tony, his eyes bulging with fear, spun round
and bolted. Narcisa turning after him, was not holding the spray but a small
revolver. There were two explosions, shocking and painful in the confined space,
sparks sprayed from the wall above Tony's head as he scurried through the arch,
fleeing like a hunted rat. If she intended hitting him, and I'm sure she did,
she was a rotten shot. I dropped to the floor like a pile of dirty washing.

It
took a few moments to work out why I'd got a dead leg, and why a hole had
appeared at the top of my left thigh, oozing blood and burning. A ricochet must
have hit me, though it must have been nearly spent, because I could touch the
bullet's distorted shape, slightly proud of my skin. It still felt red-hot. Licking
my fingers, as you do when snuffing a candle, I tugged at it, almost fainting
as it popped out with a sucking sound. Unable to suppress a groan, I lay,
panting as the agony slowly subsided.

'Well,
well,' said Narcisa looking down on me, her gun pointing at my face, 'fancy meeting
you here, Mr Caplet. And dressed so formally, too.'

'The
name's Capstan,' I said. 'I mean, no it isn't. It is Caplet.'

As
she smiled, I stared at her teeth, trying to see if they were suspiciously
sharp.

'Make
up your mind. Rex said you were a ditherer. He still gave you many chances, the
soft fool. I see you've been injured – a couple of inches over and you'd be a
gelding. Well, never mind. Stand up.'

My
wound throbbing, blood trickling down my leg, I pulled myself upright, leaning
against a pillar for support. 'What are you going to do? Are you going to call
the police?'

She
laughed. 'Your reputation for stupidity doesn't do you justice. I'm going to
have to shoot you. You've seen far too much.'

I
rested my forehead on the pillar, its rough, cool solidity somehow soothing,
though my heart was thumping, as if I'd run a marathon with Dregs. My breathing
was fast and shallow and not enough and I could see Narcisa, as if at the end
of a tunnel, raising her revolver, taking a step closer, taking aim. I thought
she must really be a rotten shot to do that. But it put her within range. Swinging
my arm, I watched the carrier bag, as if in slow motion, straining under the
weight of the leg of lamb, describing a perfect arc straight into the side of her
head. The revolver, flying from her hand, clattered on the stone floor as she
went down like the great white hope.

A
strange mix of elation and horror combined with sharp pain as I swayed over
Narcisa.

'Who's
stupid now?' I asked, silently thanking Mrs Goodfellow for my unlikely weapon.

Phil's
voice brought me back to myself. 'What's happening? Andy, is it you? What are
you doing here?'

Before
I could respond, my leg buckling, I stumbled backwards into heavy, musty cloth,
like a curtain, grabbing at it for balance. As it ripped away, I plunged into
emptiness.

I
dropped a long way before hitting something hard, if not as hard as I feared, and
came to rest on a cold stone floor, lying flat on my back, stunned and winded. As
breathing returned, I sucked in lungfuls of cool, fetid air, sitting up, still
clutching a fragment of cloth, wondering what had happened, while my eyes
adjusted to the faint light filtering in from somewhere above. I'd fallen into
a pit, four or five metres deep at a guess, and, maybe three metres across. A
pile of leaves in the corner had saved me from harm.

The
leaves moved and an animal odour filled my nostrils. Something snarled and I
leaped to my feet, despite the agony shooting through my leg, as an unkempt,
ugly head emerged.

'Hobbes!'
I gasped. 'Are you alright?'

Growling,
he stood up, sniffing the air like a dog, staring without apparent recognition.
It worried me. Even worse, he was looking at me the way a starving man looks at
a steak dinner. Flattening myself against the wall, I edged away.

'It's
me,' I said, 'you know … Andy.'

He
was following my every movement, tense like a predator, licking his lips and
swallowing.

'What's
wrong? I'm sorry I fell on you … stay back!'

Blood,
trickling into my sock, it felt as if I'd stepped into a warm, sticky puddle as
I began to panic, fearing what the scent of blood might do to him. Then some
words I'd heard a few hours earlier, when the world had been a friendlier place,
came into my head, 'He'll be hungry and I ought to tell you, dear, he can get
rather wild when he's hungry. You'd best take the leg of lamb.'

As
I upended the bag, Hobbes pounced. I screamed as, with one hand, he tossed me
over his shoulder into the leaves. Snarling, he turned his back on me, like a
lion shielding a carcass from a jackal. Covering my ears to drown out the
growls, the slurping, the tearing of flesh, the crunching of bone, I prayed the
lamb wouldn't just be the appetiser. Nightmare minutes passed as the slobbering
and cracking continued.