‘Have no fear,’ said Grubbe, ‘I ordered a selection of what I consider their finest dishes, and can assure you there will be nothing like that, though they do have trotters on the menu—their Pieds de Cochon Farci au Foie Gras et aux Langoustines is one of their signature dishes. I have also taken the liberty of ordering wine—the Chateau Jacques is a passable Burgundy.’
Although Daphne appeared relaxed about his presumption, I was not. I’d have much preferred to peruse the menu, pretend to ponder deeply, despite my weak grasp of French, and order something expensive—why not if he was footing the bill?
The headwaiter brought over a bottle of wine and poured a drop into Grubbe’s glass. The pretentious git held it up to the light, swirled the ruby red liquid, took a lingering sniff, sipped, and rolled it around his mouth. ‘That will do,’ he said.
The headwaiter nodded and filled our glasses.
I had a taste. If Grubbe had been hoping to impress me, he’d failed. Not that there was anything wrong with the Chateau Jacques, it was just that I’d often enjoyed far better—Hobbes received an annual crate of fantastic wines from a mysterious count he’d helped during the First World War, and he was generous with it. This got me thinking of Hobbes’s age, for although he could have passed for a fit man in his early fifties, I knew him to be far older. Sometimes, I glimpsed the depth of time in his eyes and was amazed.
‘Does the wine meet with your approval?’ asked Grubbe.
I came back to the present. ‘It will do,’ I said, echoing him.
He grinned. ‘It bloody well should do at ninety quid a bottle.’
Daphne took a sip and smiled. ‘Nice.’
I smiled the complacent smile of a man who knew better—last time I’d been there, Violet, who knew what she was doing, had ordered far superior wine at half the price. As the second drink kicked in, my mind drifted back to the short period when, despite her beauty, sophistication and wealth, I’d hoped she might be the woman for me. It all seemed so long ago, and so much had changed since then. Most of it for the better. I was so happy with Daphne: her kind, dark eyes, her soft brown hair, her neat figure, her intelligence, her humour and, most of all, her continuing tolerance of me. With Violet, there’d always been a touch of terror. Still, sometimes I wondered what might have been.
When I emerged from my reverie, Grubbe and Daphne were discussing his offer, but before I could work out where they’d got to, the first dish arrived. It was French onion soup with a sourdough crust smothered in Comté cheese. The rich, savoury aroma was seductive.
The waiter served us. ‘Bon appetite,’ he said and merged into the background.
The soup came close to matching one of Mrs Goodfellow’s masterpieces—perhaps Grubbe’s judgement had been sound in this case, though all the food at Le Sacré Bleu had a reputation for excellence. I decided to enjoy the meal on its own merits and thought I might write an article—Ralph would be delighted with a positive review, especially when it wouldn’t cost the Bugle a penny in expenses.
‘That’s most generous, isn’t it?’ said Daphne.
‘What?’ I said, as I chased the last drop around the bowl.
‘Valentine’s offer.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, hoping it was. ‘And the soup’s good, too.’
‘Glad you like it,’ said Grubbe with a condescending smile. He turned back to Daphne. ‘Are you happy to sign a contract?’
She shook her head. ‘Not now. I need to take a step back, think about what you’ve said, and read through it in slower time.’
‘Very wise,’ said Grubbe. ‘Ah, here’s the next course—I ordered a selection.’
The waiter set down a tray and distributed the dishes around the table, pointing out moules marinières, baked goat’s cheese, pork rillettes, smoked aubergine roulade with spinach and sun-dried tomatoes, steaks frites and an assortment of light vegetables.
‘That all looks jolly nice,’ said Grubbe as the waiter departed. ‘Please, help yourselves.’
It was good, but we hadn’t made much of an inroad when a shadow fell across the table.
The lanky, middle-aged woman I’d noticed earlier was standing there. I recognised her—it was Rosemary Crackers. This time, her eyes were wild and her face was flushed. ‘You disgust me,’ she said, leaning towards Grubbe.
‘I expect I do,’ he said and sighed. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t sorry me, you swine,’ she said, her voice slurred. ‘You are a despoiler of the countryside, a ravager of beauty, and a total bastard to boot.’
‘Guilty,’ said Grubbe with a nonchalant shrug, ‘but people need somewhere to live. I give them houses. What do you do?’
Rosemary snorted, her narrow nostrils flared, and her voice changed to a shriek that made everyone stare. ‘Give?’ she laughed. ‘You don’t give, you charge ridiculous prices for your shoddy little boxes.’
‘I can assure you that we will build our homes to the highest standards.’ Grubbe smiled. ‘Look, I know we’ll never agree, but you’ve made your point, so would you kindly allow me and my friends to enjoy our lunch?’
In response, Rosemary tipped the bowl of moules marinières over Grubbe, who squeaked like a dog’s toy. I sniggered, and then gasped as she grabbed the wine bottle, wielding it like a club as the ruby fluid ran down her sleeve.
As the headwaiter rushed towards us looking horrified, the tall, older man, who had a clipped moustache and a military bearing, marched from the dim recesses of the restaurant.
‘Stop that, Rosie!’ He took her by the shoulder and relieved her of the bottle.
‘I must apologise for my daughter’s outrageous behaviour,’ he said as she hung her head like a naughty child. ‘She’s passionate about nature, but can get carried away, and she’s not been herself for the last few days. She’s taken far more wine than is good for her, though that’s no excuse. Please, allow me to pay for your meal and for the cost of cleaning your suit.’
Grubbe’s smile was rueful, but forgiving as he contemplated his crotch. The pile of mussels there reminded me of a rocky shore at low tide, and I couldn’t suppress another heartless snigger.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘It’s all part of life’s rich tapestry.’
‘Most decent of you,’ said Rosemary’s father.
‘Not at all,’ said Grubbe. ‘Your daughter clearly cares about the environment, and I can understand that. However, my company will be doing its utmost to mitigate any damage to the area.’
‘Liar!’ said Rosemary.
‘Enough!’ said her father.
‘Sorry, Daddy.’
‘I’ll take her home. I don’t know what’s come over her. Once again, I apologise. Good afternoon.’ He nodded and propelled Rosemary away.
‘That was exciting,’ said Grubbe, mopping his lap with a napkin. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Daphne, looking shocked.
‘I’m fine,’ he said with a cheerful grin, ‘but I’ll be better when someone helps me clear up these molluscs.’
The waiter and the headwaiter brought a bucket, napkins, and profuse apologies to our table.
14
Once the staff had mopped Grubbe down, they left us to enjoy the rest of the meal. And, although I hated to admit it, he’d chosen well. In particular, the sensational, succulent pork rillettes slathered over crisp, toasted slices of baguette was heavenly. Furthermore, now business was complete, he proved a genial companion—even if he did exude an overwhelming fishy odour.
‘What’s your connection to this town?’ I asked after stuffing myself rigid on dessert, a scrumptious tarte tatin, with beautiful, buttery pastry, and wonderfully sweet, caramelised apples. ‘That is to say … umm … why did you choose Colonel Squire as a partner?’
‘I was looking for business opportunities in the region and heard that Toby Squire needed ready cash for urgent repairs to his manor. I’ve known Toby for years, so I brought him to this restaurant for lunch and suggested a development wou
ld be mutually beneficial. He put forward Sorenchester Common as an ideal location.’
‘But why? There are already enough homes and few homeless people.’
Grubbe shrugged. ‘But housing is expensive, and many young people struggle to afford anything. I like to help them.’
‘So, you intend to build affordable housing?’ asked Daphne.
He nodded. ‘Yes … well, some of it will be. The idea is that other properties will be more exclusive and the profits from these will help pay for the affordable ones.’
‘What about jobs?’ I asked. ‘Unemployment is low round here.’
‘That,’ said Grubbe, ‘is an excellent point. However, it is rising. For instance, many shops have closed recently. My development includes space for industrial units which will attract new businesses, and, of course, new businesses need new workers. The project will be a great boost to the local economy.’
It sounded great as he told it—apart from the environmental aspects, where all the new people would come from, who would pay for the infrastructure, and a sack load of other questions. I’d have liked to ask more, but he glanced at his Rolex and stood up. ‘I must be on my way—I have a meeting in half an hour and need to change my suit.’
‘It’s time I was getting back too,’ said Daphne.
‘And me,’ I said, ‘but I need the loo first.’
Grubbe signalled the waiter, took a credit card from his wallet and paid. ‘Corbett will take you back to town. He’s waiting in the carpark. Goodbye and thanks for agreeing to the work … in principle, Daphne. Andy.’ He nodded and was gone.
So was I—my bladder could wait no longer.
When I rejoined Daphne, she was standing in the doorway, staring towards Loop Woods and frowning.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘There’s a funny noise up there.’
A deep boom resounded from up the hill.
‘What do you think it is?’ she asked.
‘No idea … it sounds a bit like someone blowing over the top of a jug.’
Something burst from cover and came hurtling down the hill.
It was a huge, brownish bird with long, powerful legs and a neck like an ostrich’s.
‘That must be the rhea,’ I said. ‘It escaped from the Wildlife Park.’
‘I bet that’s what made Valentine crash,’ said Daphne. ‘I’m surprised you never mentioned it.’
‘It crossed my mind,’ I admitted, ‘but I didn’t think it could have reached here—the Wildlife Park is miles away.’
‘If it always runs like that, it wouldn’t take long to get anywhere,’ she said. ‘Someone ought to catch it—it’s clearly a danger to traffic.’
I nodded. ‘Not just to traffic. According to Mr Catt, they can disembowel a man with a single kick. Look at it go!’
Each stride was bringing the rhea closer. Its long legs were pumping like the coupling rods on a speeding steam locomotive, and I watched, entranced by its tiny head which never wobbled or bobbed despite the rough ground.
‘It’s coming this way, isn’t it?’ Daphne sounded a little nervous.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Umm … what’s that?’
It was Hobbes, his loose mac flapping like bat wings as he pounded down the hill in pursuit. Since I didn’t think Daphne had seen him in full charge before, it must have been a shock to her, as it had once been to me—I reckoned he could have outpaced any Olympic sprinter. A few moments later, Dregs appeared, following with grim determination, trying to keep up, though neither he nor Hobbes was a match for the rhea.
‘Perhaps, we’d better take cover,’ I suggested as the bird drew nearer—getting disembowelled seemed such a waste of a fine lunch.
She nodded and took a step back. But there was no need, because the rhea changed course on reaching the foot of the hill and bounded along the side of the Soren. Within no time at all, it was out of sight.
Moments later, Hobbes leapt across the river and joined us. ‘Good afternoon, Andy, Daphne,’ he said, breathing a little heavier than usual. ‘We almost had him in the woods when he was booming, but he gave us the slip. He’s a fast one, isn’t he?’
‘Very,’ said Daphne. ‘Do you know he ran into the road earlier and made Valentine Grubbe crash? You need to catch him before he kills somebody.’
‘Before Grubbe kills somebody?’ I asked with a facetious grin.
‘The rhea!’
‘Oh, right … umm … is Dregs alright?’
The dog who’d slowed to a tongue-lolling trot, reached the river and slumped into it as if he’d collapsed.
‘He’s just cooling off,’ said Hobbes. ‘That was an invigorating chase.’
‘Though the rhea got away,’ said Daphne.
Hobbes nodded. ‘He did, but at least I learned something.’
‘What?’ she asked.
‘How not to catch him,’ he replied with a wolfish grin. ‘Since I can’t match him for speed, I’ll have to come up with a better method.’
Dregs emerged from his wallow and sauntered towards us, tail wagging. I’d forgotten his sense of humour and thought he was just pleased to see us until he shook and showered us with river water.
‘Bad dog!’ said Daphne with a smile.
Dregs snickered.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Hobbes. ‘He lacks manners.
‘But I can’t stop now, I’ve got a bird to catch, and then I intend to find the killer. DCI Kirten does not appear to be making any progress.’
‘I didn’t think it was your case,’ said Daphne.
‘Any crime on my patch,’ he said, ‘is my case, and if Kirten can’t catch young Timmy’s killer, then I will. However, getting that bird under control is my primary concern at the moment.
‘I’ll see you later. Come on, Dregs.’
As he and the dog loped away, Corbett turned up with the car.
‘Home, please,’ said Daphne as he opened the doors.
On getting back to our place, Daphne changed her clothes and popped her dress into a laundry bag. ‘I’m going to get this dry-cleaned—some of that mussel juice splashed it, and then Dregs made his contribution. Does anything of yours need cleaning?’
I checked my jacket and trousers. They looked alright. ‘No,’ I said.
‘What about those trousers with the orange juice?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Daphne.
‘Umm … ’
She rummaged through the wardrobe—I’d hung them up again.
‘What are you going to do for the rest of the afternoon?’ she asked, holding out the bag.
I threw in the trousers. ‘I’ll write a review of Le Sacré Bleu.’
She smiled, kissed me, said ‘goodbye’, and hurried back to the museum. I went downstairs and started my laptop.
My intention was good, though I could still feel the alcohol in my brain. I typed in a title, ‘C’est fantastique, Le Sacré Bleu!’, and was forming a first line along the lines of ‘You are guaranteed a warm welcome at Le Sacré Bleu … ’ when thoughts of Grubbe’s alleged wife distracted me. Since a run-of-the-mill Google search only turned up the same references I’d discovered earlier, I tried all sorts of different searches. In the end, I’d skimmed through pages of irrelevant stuff before I came across a twelve-year-old archive edition of St Stephen’s Parish magazine.
It looked more promising than the other stuff, though it started with an unhinged and bizarre article from the vicar at the time, Henry ‘Hellish’ Mellish. (Henry went on to posthumous fame when struck down by a bolt from the blue, or to be more accurate, part of a satellite, during the church fete.) Then came a report of a wedding: Edward Valentine Grubbe, bachelor, had married Helen Jane Fry, spinster of the parish. A blurry photograph of the happy couple being pelted with rice outside the church made me as certain as dammit that I’d found my man. So, he had been married! So, what had happened to his wife?
I resorted to Google again, but turned up very little o
n Helen Fry or Helen Grubbe as I supposed she might have become.
One article distracted me, a totally irrelevant historical account of the trial of an earlier Helen Grubbe, who was arrested for witchcraft in 1645. Luckily for her, an enlightened judge saw through the imaginative ‘evidence’ against her, realised the accusation was nothing more than a scheme to gain control of her land, and declared her innocent. Then, in a rare display of poetic justice, he’d sentenced her accusers to the pillory. The playful populace of Sorenchester had pelted them with sheep dung for two happy hours. It was a fascinating tale and I made a note to write about it for the Bugle—there was often a need for historical filler.
The front door opened and Daphne was home—I’d wasted three hours when I should have been working.
‘A good afternoon?’ I asked, getting up to give her a hug.
She smiled. ‘It was okay, but quiet. I was intending to finish something for a school visit, but it turned out to be poor Timmy Rigg’s school, and unsurprisingly the head cancelled the trip. Still, it gave me time to look around for material for Valentine.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Not much. So far, it’s only a few bits I’d already dug out for Mr Hobbes. I can’t really believe it’s a coincidence that they’re both interested in local cryptids.’
I shrugged. ‘I should think it is. Grubbe’s interest must be connected to his development, and Hobbes is probably looking for something to do with crime—he’s not interested in history without a good reason.’
‘That makes sense if you’ve already lived through a good chunk of it,’ said Daphne. ‘Have you ever asked how old he is?’
‘I once asked Mrs G, but she didn’t know. I’ve never dared ask him.’
She sat down on the sofa and nodded. ‘I get that—it might offend him. The thing is, I’ve come across loads of old photos in the archives, and some of them look just like him. If I didn’t know better, I’d have assumed they were his ancestors.’
‘It’s best not to think about it too much,’ I said. ‘I don’t anymore. Not often, anyway—it hurts my head.’
Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5) Page 14
