Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5)

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Charlie, screwing up his face with the effort of examining me, ‘he’s a bit bigger than me so my normal apparel will be no good, but I reckon he might just fit into my old work overalls. It’ll be a pinch, mind.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Hobbes. ‘If Charlie has no objections, you can have a quick wash.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll grab the bath and heat the water.’

  Until then, I hadn’t noticed the galvanised steel tub hanging from a nail in the wall next to the back door. Charlie took it down and let us into the kitchen, which wasn’t much to write home about: a stained enamel sink with a single dripping tap, a battered Formica table, two worm-eaten wooden chairs, some shelves, and a corner cupboard standing on the chipped red-brick floor. A wood-fired range that looked as old as time covered one wall and supplied a little welcome warmth. Charlie took a blackened cauldron from a shelf, filled it with water, and plonked it on the range.

  ‘Won’t be long now, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll go and find a pair of my old overalls. I think there’s some clean ones somewhere.’ He wandered away, shaking his head and humming to himself.

  Hobbes and Dregs stayed in the yard with Cuthbert, who’d woken up and was watching proceedings with interest. I just wished they’d shut the door—a nasty draught was blowing in, raising countless goose pimples on my skin. I moved nearer to the range’s warmth.

  Charlie had placed the bath in the middle of the red-brick floor. I compared it to the size of the cauldron. ‘I’m not going to get much of a wash—I’m used to lots of hot water.’

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘Do the best you can. In the meantime, Dregs and I are going to nose around for that rhea—it must have been heading in this general direction. Put your filthy clothes in a bag and let’s hope Charlie’s overalls fit.’

  They left me in the company of Cuthbert, who was now lying half-on, half-off the doormat, propping open the back door with his bulk. He seemed to find me fascinating and followed my every move with curious eyes.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ I asked.

  ‘What was that, sir?’ asked Charlie, ambling back into the kitchen with a set of patched and stained khaki overalls and a large, rather threadbare towel.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just clearing my throat.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were talking to Cuthbert. I often do, sir. He’s a good listener.’

  I nodded. ‘I expect he is. Do you think you could make him move so we can shut the door—there’s a horrible draught.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir,’ said Charlie, ‘but I can’t make him do anything unless he wants to—he’s far too big, if you get my drift.’ Charlie took an apple from a shelf and placed it in the corner. ‘Come on in if you want it.’

  Cuthbert raised his head. After a moment’s contemplation, he got to his trotters and skipped across the kitchen to the apple. Charlie closed the door, and Cuthbert ate, savouring every delicate bite like a gourmet.

  ‘There you go, sir. He’s very partial to a bit of fruit.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, though I’d hoped Cuthbert would be on the other side of the door—I’d never shared a bathroom with an enormous pig before and wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea. Still, I’d endured worse—Mrs Goodfellow had once tricked Dregs and me into sharing a flea bath when we became infested after a visit to some werewolves we knew.

  ‘Water’s hot, sir,’ said Charlie, covering his hands with an old rag and lugging the cauldron over. He upended it and filled the tub to a depth of about half an inch. ‘I’ll just cool it off,’ he said, refilled the cauldron with tap water, and added it. ‘There you go, sir,’ he said with a contented smile. ‘I’ll leave you to it. There’s a bar of soap in the sink—you can use that. Put your shitty clothes in this.’ He pulled a black bin bag from the cupboard and left me.

  Cuthbert, having finished his apple and, seeing no more, gave a regretful sigh and lay down next to the bath, staring through round, piggy eyes as I stripped off. The intensity of his gaze was embarrassing. I stepped into the water—it would have been pleasant to wallow, but it barely covered my feet and was only tepid. I might have collapsed into misery, if experience with Hobbes hadn’t taught me to make the best of things. Sitting down with my knees up to my chin, I splashed myself, much to Cuthbert’s amazement, and set to work with the soap. Charlie had exaggerated by calling it a bar—it was a misshapen lump of old scraps in various shades of grey. I did my best to sluice the rancid pig stink from my body and was pleased to see and smell a difference.

  When decontaminated as well as possible in the circumstances, I stood up, towelled down, stepped out, and finished drying myself by the range, performing a weird jig to ensure neither foot had too much contact with the chilly brick floor.

  Rather to my surprise, Charlie’s old overalls fitted, though they were a little tight here and there, mostly across the buttocks. I was grateful that he’d also brought a pair of thick woollen socks. I must have looked a horrible sight, but there was no mirror in the kitchen. It was just as well.

  Cuthbert decided it was a crime to waste good bathwater and drank it.

  ‘Desist, you daft bugger!’ said Charlie as he dawdled in. ‘Excuse my language—he’s a charming pig, sir, but he’s an idiot.’

  Cuthbert ignored him.

  ‘Would you care for a cup of tea, sir? I like to have one this time of an evening and I was going to put the kettle on.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said with some trepidation, uncertain about Charlie’s hygiene—he had a pig in his kitchen!

  ‘Would Earl Grey tea be to your taste, sir?’

  I nodded, astonished at the sophistication—there was clearly more to Charlie than met the eye.

  He put the kettle on the range, rummaged in the blue-painted cupboard, and emerged with a delicate bone china tea set on a silver tray, and a magnificent tea caddy. After going through the entire ritual—warming the pot, counting out three spoons of tea into the pot, inundating them with boiling water, and waiting for four minutes, he stirred it and pronounced it ready.

  ‘How do you take it, sir? I usually have it with a dash of milk, but they tell me some people prefer lemon.’

  ‘Milk would be great.’

  ‘That’s good, sir, as I appear to be right out of lemons.’ He grinned and gestured towards the least wormy chair. ‘Take a seat, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I sat down, and Charlie lounged against the wall with Cuthbert at his feet like a monstrous lap dog.

  ‘What’s the news from Sorenchester, sir?’ asked Charlie. ‘Only I don’t get to the big town too often these days.’

  I told him of Timmy Rigg’s murder.

  He looked shocked. ‘How horrible! Why would anyone want to shoot a child?’

  I took a sip of my tea. It was perfect—Mrs G herself might have made it. ‘Nobody knows,’ I said.

  ‘Somebody knows, sir,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The one who pulled the trigger.’

  I nodded and told him about Colonel Squire’s development on Sorenchester Common.

  ‘That’s not right, sir,’ said Charlie, his simian face outraged. ‘He shouldn’t be doing anything there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, sir, that the land doesn’t belong to him.’

  ‘I’m sure it does,’ I said.

  ‘No, sir, it does not. General Squire, I mean General Redvers Squire, not General Arthur Squire, gave it away when Queen Victoria was still a slip of a girl.’

  ‘How would you know about that?’ I asked.

  ‘I know more than you might think, sir,’ said Charlie, looking serious, ‘because I was General Arthur’s pig man when I was a youngster. The old man was a proper gent—he insisted I called him Arthur, and he was very fond of his pigs. He liked nothing more than to chat about them over a cup of tea—he’d fortify his with a nip of whisky. Arthur was a good man and so was his son—nothing like the present Colonel Squire. If only Mr Cla
rence had stayed in charge … ’

  He sighed. Cuthbert was snoring.

  ‘What does this have to do with the development?’ I asked, more out of politeness than interest.

  ‘I was coming to that, sir. One day, when Arthur had enjoyed more than his usual nip of whisky, he started talking about his grandfather—that was old General Redvers.’

  I sighed—this was going to be a long job. I hoped Hobbes would be back soon.

  ‘He told me all about the campaigns the old General had fought—exciting tales they were, too, for a young country lad like me. Then he dozed off.’

  ‘And the common?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. When he woke, he said General Redvers would often ride on the common. It was more open then and still the property of the Squire family, sir.’

  ‘Are you saying they don’t own it anymore?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. The old man said his grandfather had signed it over to … ’

  There was a scuffle at the back door.

  It burst open and Dregs bolted in, as if pursued by demons.

  A moment later, Hobbes rolled in on his back, grappling with something wrapped up in his raincoat.

  The rhea’s head emerged through the raincoat’s sleeve and aimed a vicious peck at Hobbes’s nose. A huge, clawed dinosaur foot emerged from somewhere else and tried to kick him.

  Hobbes, twisting to avoid the attacks, established a firm grip on the bird’s neck and looked over his shoulder. ‘Andy, would you be so good as to shut the back door? My hands are a little full at the moment.’

  As I pushed the door shut, Charlie picked up my discarded towel and draped it over the rhea’s head. The bird relaxed.

  17

  Hobbes, never the best groomed of men, looked even more like someone who’d wrestled a giant bird than normal. He got to his feet, brushed off a few downy feathers, pulled out his mobile and made a call.

  ‘Mr Catt? … Hobbes here … I have your bird in my custody … Yes, there was a severe pecking in Hedbury.

  ‘No, sir, I’m aware of no further injuries since then … When can you get here? Good … We’re at Pigsty Cottage on the main road out of Hedbury, assuming you’re coming from the direction of Sorenchester. If you pass a hedge with a car-sized hole in it, you will have gone too far.’

  Dregs lay down behind Cuthbert, keeping a wary eye on the rhea, and growling whenever it twitched.

  Hobbes finished his call. ‘Mr Catt is on his way.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ll be delighted to see the back of that thing—it scares me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too alarmed,’ said Hobbes. ‘Mr Brick has him tamed for the present. How did you know what to do?’

  Charlie grinned. ‘When I was a lad, sir, my friend, General Arthur, kept geese for the Christmas market and I looked after them. Covering their eyes always kept the mad buggers quiet—I thought it might work on that too.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Hobbes, and accepted a cup of tea.

  Cuthbert chose that moment to investigate the strange phenomenon. Snuffling the air, he sauntered across the kitchen, prodded the bird with his snout, and trod on the bottom of the towel. The rhea took a step back, and the towel slid to the floor.

  ‘Umm … ’ I said, in the moment of calm before the rhea opened his wild brown eyes and glared around the room.

  Dregs yelped. Cuthbert sat down in shock. The rhea went bananas. It charged anything that moved, and anything that didn’t, flapping, pecking and kicking without discrimination.

  Being of sound mind, and full of fear, I dodged behind Hobbes and Charlie and wedged myself into a corner where Dregs joined me. ‘It’s only a bird,’ I said. He didn’t look reassured.

  One of the few facts I knew about rheas was that they were flightless, and maybe that was true, but no one had told this one. Somehow, it got a grip on the walls, and circled the kitchen, its stubby wings flapping, its vicious, horny feet knocking plaster from the walls, and pots and pans from the shelves. As Dregs and I cowered, Hobbes dived for it but missed by a feather.

  ‘Duck!’ I yelled as the rhea hurtled towards Charlie.

  ‘No, sir, it ain’t,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Umm … What?’

  ‘It ain’t a duck, sir. Oof!’

  In attempting its most ambitious circuit so far, the rhea had slipped. Charlie had caught it—right in the midriff.

  Hobbes pounced.

  The towel went back over the bird’s head.

  Peace reigned once again.

  Hobbes removed his belt and trussed the rhea’s legs.

  Charlie, groaning, used Cuthbert’s stolid solidity as a prop to get to his feet. ‘Crikey, sir, that’s a fast one and no mistake!’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘I’m sure it was a valuable learning experience for us all. Now, where did I put my teacup?’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘That’ll be Mr Catt, I expect,’ said Hobbes at the same time as his mobile rang. ‘Would you let him in, Andy?’

  I walked through Charlie’s sparse sitting room: one battered sofa, one old-fashioned radio, one moth-eaten rug, and one naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. When I reached the door, Mr Catt was waiting but something looked different—it was the smart lounge suit. I’d never before seen him without a crumpled safari suit.

  He responded to my quizzical look. ‘I had to look my best today—I was in court.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You remember that cold snap at Christmas?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, the heating in the insect house broke down. Many of them died … it wasn’t swarm enough.’ He smirked at his lame joke.

  ‘But … umm … I don’t understand why you were in court.’

  ‘Because of how I disposed of the dead ones—I dumped them in a lay-by and got charged with fly-tipping.’ He chuckled like a schoolboy as I groaned. ‘Now, I believe you have something of mine.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We have your rhea.’

  Mr Catt grinned. ‘You always have my ear if you need to talk.’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ I said. ‘The rhea is at the back.’

  ‘The rhea should always be at the back,’ said Mr Catt, and tittered.

  Mr Catt entered the kitchen and beamed. ‘Mr Hobbes, you really have caught Dai the rhea! I hope you’ll be better soon.’

  ‘This is Mr Brick,’ said Hobbes, ignoring the quip, and introducing our host.

  ‘Arfur Brick?’ asked Mr Catt.

  Charlie shook his head. ‘No, sir, that was my old man. I’m Charlie.’

  ‘Mr Brick subdued your rhea when he was proving to be a handful,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘Then I thank him,’ said Mr Catt. ‘I’d better take Dai home.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘And make sure he doesn’t escape again. He has put the public at risk and it is only through good fortune that no one was seriously injured or worse.’

  Mr Catt looked solemn. ‘You are absolutely right, Inspector. Rhea americana nobilis and other rheiformes can be dangerous, but they are at risk from traffic. And there are hunters—one escapee got shot and made into sausages. I’m grateful no such fate has struck Dai—we have great hopes for him as the basis of a captive breeding flock. The species is near threatened in the wild.’

  ‘Do you require a hand putting him in your van?’ asked Hobbes. ‘He may not go quietly.’

  Mr Catt shook his head. ‘He’ll be fine as long as I keep his eyes covered.’ He pulled a soft hood from his pocket, removed the towel, and blindfolded the bird before it could react.

  In response, the bird vacated copiously down his leg.

  ‘He’s pooped on you, sir,’ said Charlie with a gleeful chuckle. ‘The geese what I looked after for General Arthur would do the same given half a chance.’

  With a rueful glance at his soiled trousers, Mr Catt handed back Hobbes’s belt, looped a length of twine round the rhea’s neck and led him through the cottage, out the front door and towards the van. We followe
d—all of us, including Cuthbert.

  ‘The pig’s escaped,’ I said when I noticed him by my side.

  ‘Don’t you go worrying about Cuthbert,’ said Charlie. ‘He’ll not run away—he hasn’t had his supper yet, and he knows it.’

  Indeed, Cuthbert proved as well behaved a pig as I’d ever met. He found a good place to watch and sat down while Mr Catt coaxed Dai into the back of the van, which was separated from the front by a sturdy, narrow-meshed grill. Dregs, alert and twitchy, kept well away, growling like a wasps’ nest, and it was only after Mr Catt had removed the hood from Dai’s head and had slammed the door shut, that he gave vent to his feelings. He barked ferociously as Dai glared at him through the rhea window.

  ‘Thank you again for tracking him down,’ said Mr Catt, and wiped his trouser leg with a silk handkerchief.

  ‘Just doing my job, sir,’ said Hobbes with a wolfish grin. ‘I am delighted the public is no longer at risk.’

  Mr Catt waved goodbye and got into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Rhea hunting is a most invigorating distraction,’ said Hobbes as the van sped away, ‘but I think it’s now time to find out who killed young Timothy Rigg. DCI Kirten appears to be making a right dog’s breakfast of the case. That last call came from Constable Poll—Kirten’s arrested Mr Ching.’

  ‘From Aye Ching’s takeaway?’ I asked.

  Hobbes nodded.

  ‘But I thought he was on holiday at the time.’

  ‘He was,’ said Hobbes with a sigh.

  ‘What’s a takeaway, sir?’ asked Charlie. ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

  ‘It’s a shop where you buy hot food to take home,’ I said, wondering what sort of life Charlie led. Or was he joking? Hedbury, only a twenty-minute walk away, had both a fish and chip shop and a Chinese takeaway.

  ‘Well, sirs, I’d better see to Cuthbert’s dinner,’ said Charlie. ‘Drop in anytime.’ He beckoned the pig and sauntered back to his cottage.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Hobbes. ‘I smell rain coming, and you’re not dressed for motorcycling in the wet.’

  ‘I’m not dressed for motorcycling at all,’ I said.

  ‘Very true.’ He chuckled. ‘I hate to imagine what you are dressed for. Let’s go.’