My limited experience of foreign taxi drivers had led me to expect a certain amount of madness, disregard for traffic conventions, and a cavalier attitude to the lives and well-being of his passengers. Our man did not let me down. The only consolation was that it only took a few heart-stopping minutes before we reached the airfield where Dilip was checking his Cessna. The taxi pulled up in a cloud of dust and, ten minutes later, we were airborne. In a little over two hours we’d be at the international airport.
‘That went according to plan,’ said Hobbes, looking pleased.
‘Great, but when do we get to eat?’ I asked.
‘At the airport,’ he said. ‘We’ll have time for a good meal. There is a fine restaurant there.’
‘Excellent,’ I said, steeling myself against the gnawing hunger. ‘Then what?’
‘Then we fly home,’ said Daphne. ‘Thank you, Mr Hobbes, for asking us on this trip. It’s been amazing, hasn’t it, Andy?’
Amazing was not the word I’d have chosen, but I nodded and smiled.
I should have been a diplomat.
10
I couldn’t stop yawning, Daphne seemed dazed, and even Hobbes looked bleary. We’d just disembarked from the Airbus into a drizzly, blustery afternoon at London Heathrow after what had felt like an interminable flight, battling headwinds and turbulence. Even though I was in an airport wheelchair being pushed by Daphne through the bustle, the sense of comparative space was a delight, despite the thought of the long queues at immigration and customs.
A youngish, but otherwise nondescript woman in a smart grey suit appeared as if from nowhere. ‘Mr Hobbes and party?’
Hobbes nodded.
‘Nicola Smethurst.’ She showed some ID. ‘Would you follow me, please?’
She led us through an unmarked side door into a small room.
‘Please, take a seat.’ Nicola gestured at the soft-leather sofa along one side and picked a tablet computer from a table.
‘How was your trip?’ she asked as Hobbes and Daphne made themselves comfortable.
‘Successful,’ said Hobbes. ‘I mediated between the opposing parties, banged a few heads together, and helped them achieve a satisfactory settlement.’
‘Excellent.’ Nicola tapped away at her tablet. ‘Were there any problems?’
‘Many,’ said Hobbes, ‘but nothing my team couldn’t handle.’
I grinned, happy he regarded me as part of the team, though I couldn’t help wondering if I’d been more trouble than I was worth.
Hobbes continued. ‘As you can see, Mr Caplet received an injury to his leg during his official duties, and we lost some equipment to marauding bandits.’
Nicola smiled. ‘How is your leg, Mr Caplet?’
‘Oh … umm … it’s getting better.’
‘Mrs Caplet’s archaeological skills and knowledge were crucial to the success of the mission,’ said Hobbes. ‘Akar fulfilled his transport and guiding role to perfection.’
‘And yaks are nice,’ I said. ‘They’ve got lovely … ’
‘Quite,’ said Nicola.
Daphne nudged me and I shut up.
‘One other thing,’ said Hobbes.
Nicola raised her eyes.
‘As a consequence of his accident, Mr Caplet has become acquainted with our friends.’
‘I see.’ She ran her gaze over me and didn’t appear much impressed. ‘Can we trust him?’
‘I’ll guarantee it,’ said Hobbes, fixing me with a look that made me nod, though I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to.
‘Don’t talk about the friends who looked after you when you fell,’ Daphne explained.
‘You mean the Yet … ’
‘Shh!’ said Daphne.
‘Why?’
‘Because I say so,’ said Hobbes.
‘I’ll keep quiet.’
‘Good,’ said Hobbes, smiling like a friendly crocodile.
Nicola nodded. ‘In that case, thank you for your help. Your car is waiting outside. Goodbye.’
‘I’ll join you in a day or two,’ said Hobbes, turning to Daphne and me. ‘I must make my report.’
Nicola opened another door, helped Daphne push me through, stepped back inside, and shut it behind us. We were outside, and the first hints of evening were already darkening the cloudy sky. A damp, chilly breeze raised goose pimples on my bandaged, but trouser leg-less leg, and I hoped we wouldn’t be out there for too long. But within seconds, a large grey car pulled up and a morose-looking driver got out, showed his ID and said he would drive us home. He helped me from the heavy airport wheelchair and onto the back seat without causing my leg too much discomfort. As Daphne got in beside me, he stowed our baggage, took his position at the wheel and set off. Despite roadworks and heavy rain along much of the M4 motorway, we reached Sorenchester in under two hours.
I dozed much of the way, and it was only when the car pulled up outside our house that it struck me that there would be problems. ‘How am I going to get into the house? How do I get upstairs to bed? And … umm … what about the bathroom?’
‘Mr Hobbes has arranged something,’ said Daphne through a yawn.
The tiny, frail-looking figure of Mrs Goodfellow welcomed us from the doorway of our house. ‘Hello, dears,’ she said in her quavering voice. ‘Did you have a pleasant holiday?’
‘Lovely,’ I said, ‘but I can’t walk.’
‘So, the old fellow said. Don’t worry though, I’m here. He asked me to stay until you are more mobile.’
She prised me from the car seat, and, despite Daphne and the driver’s attempts to help, insisted that I use her bony shoulder as a crutch. She was much stronger than she looked, and I had few qualms about this, except that it seemed undignified and wrong for a grown man to be seen leaning on a little old lady, even if that man had only one functioning leg. Still, I doubted many people would be out in the rain. I’d probably get away with it.
The harsh voice of Len ‘Featherlight’ Binks, proprietor of The Feathers, the town’s grottiest pub, shattered that hope. ‘Nice trousers, Caplet. Now, hop it!’
‘Hi, Featherlight,’ I said. Despite the downpour, he was wearing his habitual stained vest and saggy-waisted trousers with his bellies flopping over the top.
Featherlight smiled at Mrs Goodfellow and bowed to Daphne—he appeared to admire her, despite her poor taste in marrying me.
‘Such a nice man,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, as he left us in peace. ‘Always so polite!’
That she believed it was annoying, yet it was a peculiar quirk of Featherlight’s character that he treated women with old-fashioned courtesy, a complete contrast to the way he treated men, in particular the lowlifes that drank in his pub.
Mrs Goodfellow lugged me into the house and set me down on the sofa in the lounge.
‘It’s good to be home,’ I said.
Daphne nodded. ‘And it was great to be away too.’
‘Apart from the boring food,’ I said. ‘And the hardship … and the pain … and the danger.’
‘But we wouldn’t have seen the mountains, the rivers, the lakes or the snow leopard. We wouldn’t have enjoyed the company of our friends, and the history, and the mysticism of the place. We wouldn’t have such wonderful memories.’ Her brown eyes shone. ‘We should get out in the wild more often.’
I nodded some sort of agreement. She was right, of course—we had seen wonderful things, but there was something about home comforts and safety and not getting altitude sickness, and not being frightened into ravines by leopards that held more appeal. Nevertheless, I felt I should offer some encouragement. ‘Great idea,’ I said, ‘but can we wait until my leg’s better?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. I’m going for a shower.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, and started for the kitchen.
‘Umm … before you do that, I need the bathroom, but how will I get upstairs?’
‘You won’t, dear.’
‘So, what do I do?’
‘The same as usual, except down here.’
‘I can’t!’
‘Don’t worry—I’ve borrowed Mrs Fothergill’s commode. The poor old dear is in hospital with her feet and doesn’t need it.’
Poor old dear, indeed! I’d met Mrs Fothergill at Blackdog Street and was sure she was only in her late sixties—decades younger than Mrs G.
There’s little dignity in using a commode, but the relief was worth any embarrassment, and at least the old girl left me alone until she returned to take it away.
‘Thank you,’ I said when all was back to relative normality.
‘Always pleased to help, dear. It takes me back to my nursing days.’
Daphne, clean, fresh and changed, came back down ten minutes later, just in time for the old girl’s tea, which was infinitely more welcome than the greasy stuff we’d endured in the mountains. And there was another treat—the old girl had baked a dark and succulent ginger cake to welcome us home. My world, shattered by journey and injury, began rebuilding around me.
‘Has anything happened round here over the last few weeks?’ I asked when my mouth was at last empty, and the cake was a fragment of its former glory.
‘Not much,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, ‘other than a horrible murder—the old fellow won’t be happy about that when he gets back.’
‘A murder?’ I said, aghast.
‘What happened?’ asked Daphne.
‘A young boy called Timmy Rigg went missing after school,’ said Mrs G. ‘They didn’t find him until the next morning. He was in someone’s back garden, shot through the head.’
‘How awful,’ said Daphne, echoing my thoughts, though I could imagine the excitement the crime must have caused at the Bugle. No doubt Ralph, despite his fondness for positive stories, had splashed it across the front page.
‘Have they caught the murderer yet?’ I asked.
‘No, dear. Since the old fellow was away, the police brought in a detective from the city, but Constable Poll told me there’ve been no leads so far.’
‘When was this?’ asked Daphne.
‘Five days ago, dear. The killer used a high-velocity rifle.’
‘Why would anyone want to shoot a child?’ asked Daphne.
The old girl shrugged. ‘Who knows the manifold wickedness of the human heart?’
We sat in silence, digesting the news for a few moments.
‘Mr Hobbes will catch the murderer,’ said Daphne.
‘I hope so, dear, if he’s allowed to. The man they brought in outranks him and has a … reputation.’
‘But surely,’ I said, ‘he’ll want all the help he can get, and what better help than Hobbes?’
‘In a sane world you would be right, dear,’ said Mrs G. ‘But no one shoots children in a sane world and I know some senior police officers get jealous of a big case and hate anyone to share in the glory of solving it.
She smiled. ‘More cake?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Daphne.
‘Yes, please,’ I said, pleased with my wife’s restraint, since there wasn’t much left and I fancied it all. ‘It’s delicious—especially after living on tsampa for weeks.’
Mrs Goodfellow cut another slice, and I allowed myself to appreciate the rich, spicy, tongue-tingling aromas before sinking my teeth into it. ‘This,’ I declared, ‘is a masterpiece. It is the king of ginger cakes.’
Mrs G smiled and handed me the last slice.
‘I shouldn’t,’ I said.
But I did.
‘Any more news?’ asked Daphne as I stuffed.
The old girl nodded. ‘The council has agreed to allow Colonel Squire’s development, despite local feeling. The SODs are still doing whatever they can to oppose it, though it looks hopeless.’
Since my feelings about all this were disappointment, sadness and anger, I realised I’d made up my mind—and I was too late to do anything about it.
All the travelling and the time difference caught up with us. Daphne yawned, which started me off. Within a minute, it was clear that sleep was our only option.
‘How am I going to get to bed?’ I asked.
‘You’ll have to sleep here,’ said Daphne.
‘On the sofa? I suppose I could, but what about washing and … other things?’
Mrs G took charge. ‘I anticipated your needs. There’s the commode, and I’ll bring in a bucket for you to wash in. If you’re lucky, dear, I’ll give you a bed bath in the morning.’
It was not an idle threat, and I blushed and squirmed until Daphne brought down a spare duvet and pillows and converted the sofa into a cosy bed. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she helped me wash before tucking me in, kissing me goodnight, and heading upstairs. If I hadn’t got used to roughing it, I might have found the sofa uncomfortable, and might not have dropped into a deep sleep before I could even say ‘goodnight’ to Mrs G.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Daphne and Mrs G, and my gift for putting up with adversity, I survived the night and the next day. I was, however, puzzled when Daphne remarked that I could be a miserable git, for in my opinion, I was behaving heroically in a stressful situation. Anyway, she wasn’t the one forced to spend days on a sofa, having to use a commode, and having to wash in a bucket. All in all, I considered I was coping well in very trying circumstances.
Now and then, I experimented with my leg—it was still tender and sore but was regaining movement. In fact, by the third morning after our return, the bruising, swelling and discomfort had reduced enough that I could stand up and lurch around downstairs with the help of a stout wooden walking stick—the tooth-marks in it suggested Mrs G had taken it from Dregs. I missed that big, bad dog, but he’d been banned from visiting on account of his galumphing great feet and lack of bedside manner. Mrs G looked after my wound, changed the dressings when required, and expressed her approval at the way it was healing. I had an inkling her cooking took much of the credit—her cream of chicken soup with warm crusty bread fresh from the oven would have drawn any latter-day Lazarus from his tomb. And as for the Eton Mess she made at Daphne’s request, paradise was regained during the eating of that sweet dish.
I filled my convalescence with boredom, including watching television and reading newspapers. Most of the time, I didn’t even bother to turn on my laptop or charge my phone. I suspected that despite everything, I was missing the mountains. Occasionally, television news provided snippets about the murder, but there was no indication of how the case was progressing.
As the pain in my leg faded, my mobility increased. When I could hobble around without too much difficulty or swearing, Mrs G returned to Blackdog Street, and Daphne went back to work, suggesting she needed a rest.
Since I was getting back to my normal self, and the tiredness of travel had passed, there was no longer a reason why I shouldn’t start writing my exciting account of the expedition. I rummaged through the bits of baggage I’d brought home and pulled out my notebook, only to find the pages damp and clumped together—the monk’s flask had been squashed in transit and the potion had run over everything. Still, my camera, though battered, appeared to have survived. However, when I turned it on, nothing happened. I replaced the batteries and tried again. Still nothing. I opened the back, and gasped as water splashed into my groin.
The doorbell rang.
I struggled to the front door and opened it.
It was a salesman, with a bag full of invaluable tools for old folks. After giving me a quick glance and a canny grin, he offered to sell me patented incontinence pants. I shut the door in his face and retreated to the sofa.
I’d just made myself comfortable when the bell rang again.
Muttering, I got up to answer. ‘It was just an accident. I am not incontinent,’ I said, as I tugged open the door.
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Hobbes.
‘Oh … umm … sorry. I thought you were someone else. You’re back.’
‘Evidently. How are you?’
‘Much better, thank you.’ I glanced down my fro
nt. ‘I spilled some water. Come in.’
Hobbes ducked under the door frame and followed me inside.
‘Take a seat,’ I said, and slumped back onto the sofa.
Hobbes sat in an armchair and sighed.
‘When did you get back?’ I asked.
‘About an hour ago. I thought I should check on you before going to the station.’
‘Thank you. I’ve been well looked after and I’m getting around after a fashion. How about you?’
‘I’m fed up with filing reports and answering questions. However, that is the nature of the job and the department appears pleased with the results of our expedition. I’ll be happy to get back to some proper police work, though.’
‘You’ve heard about the murder?’
He grimaced. ‘I’ve read the lurid account in the Bugle. I gather DCI Steve Kirten from the Met has taken charge.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I’ve met him,’ said Hobbes.
‘Is he any good?’
‘He’s been promoted rapidly.’
I thought for a moment. ‘What does that mean?’
Hobbes grinned. ‘It means he’s good at getting promotions.’
‘But you’re not impressed,’ I guessed.
‘I’ll speak no ill of the man as long as he gets results. In this case, he should, because there are relatively few legally held rifles around here. Of course, there may be illegal, unregistered weapons too.’
‘And the killer might have come from somewhere else,’ I said.
Hobbes shook his head. ‘Possible, but unlikely. Anyone walking around town with a rifle would attract attention. Anyway, why would anyone come to town to shoot a small boy?’
‘And why Timmy?’ I asked.
Hobbes’s expression was grave. ‘That’s a good question. There’s something strange about this case.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I don’t have enough information to suggest anything.’
Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5) Page 10
