Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman)

by Martin, Wilkie

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, the guttural tone of his voice suggesting he was foreign. ‘I am not, I hope, disturbing you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is good.’

  As he returned to his sewing, I closed my eyes, convinced I was dreaming, but when I looked again he was still there.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am the tailor, sir.’

  ‘What are you doing in my room?’

  ‘Stitching a rent in your trousers,’ he said, holding them up with long, spindly fingers. ‘You tore them, so I am told, at the fete.’

  ‘Did I? Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  I must have dropped off again because the light was fading when my eyes opened. As I stretched and sat up, I became aware of soft breathing.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, folding my chinos, hanging them in the wardrobe. ‘Did you sleep well? Would you like something to eat?’

  ‘Yes to both questions. What time is it?’

  ‘Half-past nine. Would you like a cold beef sandwich?’

  ‘I’d love one … Actually, I’d love some. I’m starving. With mustard would be nice.’

  ‘Shall I bring them up here?’

  ‘No, I’ll come down.’

  She left my room and a few minutes later, still in my pyjamas, I followed her into the kitchen.

  She cut a freshly baked loaf into mouth-watering slices, spreading them with mustard, piling on the beef.

  ‘Where’s Hobbes?’ I asked, detecting no signs of his presence; I could usually tell if he was in, even if he was being quiet.

  ‘He’s out with Dregs. He took Milord home and went to investigate another dead sheep.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Umm … Milord?’

  ‘The tailor. He came round to fix the old fellow’s clothes and I got him to stitch the tear in your trousers that you made when you fell on the railings.’

  ‘I fell on some railings?’

  ‘After you’d put your head through the cider counter. Here you are.’

  Handing me a plate of sandwiches, she poured me out a mug of tea. I sat at the table, chewing in confusion, with no memory of railings, then or ever. After I’d defeated the worst of the hunger, a thought occurred.

  ‘Is he a lord, then – the tailor?’

  ‘No, dear, whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘You called him Milord, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s his name: Milord Schmidt.’

  ‘That’s a strange name.’

  ‘A strange name for a strange fellow, but his given name was Villy; he changed it when he settled here after the war, thinking it would impress people.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Not really, dear. Still, he is a most excellent tailor and is always happy to look after the old fellow’s clothes. They come in for a lot of wear and tear. He’s especially good with trousers and zips – the old fellow calls him the Milord of the Flies. Not to his face, though: he’s very highly strung.’

  I nodded. Despite my rest and the wonderful sandwiches, my brain did not feel up to a long conversation with Mrs G. Still, another thought occurred.

  ‘Did you say there was another dead sheep?’

  ‘Yes, dear, out on a farm off the Pigton Road.’

  ‘Do you know any details?’

  ‘Sorry, you’ll have to wait till he gets back.’

  As I finished my sandwiches and tea, to my astonishment, I felt sleepy again and having yawned and stumbled upstairs, I slept until late the next morning. By then, I felt more or less better, though the previous couple of days remained hazy. It was almost like trying to remember dreams, when all that remained were flimsy, unconnected threads.

  I washed and dressed, taking my time. On going downstairs, I found I was alone, which was fine; I needed peace and quiet. Having made myself tea and toast with marmalade, I sat at the kitchen table, munching and slurping with great pleasure, until, finishing, I picked up the Bugle from the table. The headline, ‘Another Dead Sheep’, was printed above a censored photo of the dear departed animal, whose throat, according to the article, had been torn out and who had been disembowelled. Local resident, Mr Robert Nibblet (42), had apparently stumbled across the gory remains when returning from an evening out. It took a second or two to register Skeleton Bob’s real name and to realise he’d let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, having blabbed about his sightings. I couldn’t blame him for wanting his moment.

  ‘There have been,’ the article continued, ‘hundreds of big cat sightings across the country over the last few years. While some may dismiss them as fantasies, the evidence of this, a second mutilated sheep, suggests a truly terrifying wild beast may be at large in the vicinity of Loop Woods.’

  I sniggered, reckoning he’d hit the nail on the head; Hobbes fitted the description perfectly, though I doubted he’d really dismember a sheep, unless he was extremely hungry and then he’d make sure to pay for it. However, if the victim had been Henry Bishop, I’d have had few doubts as to the perpetrator.

  I flicked through a few more pages, finding only a short piece, about the music festival, of interest. It said that, although Tiny Tim Jones had, reluctantly, been forced to drop out because a court appearance had not gone according to plan, the organisers had managed to fill the gap with the Famous Fenderton Fiddle Fellows, or 4F to their fans. I was amazed they had any fans, having seen them once, when they’d played a New Year’s dance in the Corn Hall, playing so atrociously that they’d cleared the place well before midnight. As most of the punters didn’t have press cards like I did but had paid thirty pounds a head to get in, the consensus was that they’d suffered robbery with violins and the band had to be smuggled out the back to prevent a riot.

  I cleared up my breakfast things, wondering what to do with myself until lunchtime, for, though I was feeling so much better, I was too lethargic to go anywhere.

  The doorbell ringing, I walked to the front door and opened it.

  The beautiful lady was standing at the top of the steps.

  ‘Hello, Andy,’ she said, smiling.

  The unexpected apparition made my jaw drop, my legs lose rigidity, my heart pound, as I struggled for breath.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

  Dancing black spots got in the way of the lovely vision as, head spinning, I made an idiot noise, feeling as if I’d fallen back into dreams, feeling the touch of her cool, soft hand on my wrist, smelling her warm, heady perfume, as she guided me to the sofa and sat me down. I remained there, confused, amazed, almost fainting, until she pressed a glass of water into my hand. When I bent forward to take a sip, sweat, dripping from my nose, rippled the surface.

  How could she be in Hobbes’s sitting room?

  ‘I thought,’ she said, ‘that I’d come round to see how you’re getting on. You had me worried at the fete but I bumped into Mrs Goodfellow in town and she said you were much better. I can see you’re still poorly, though.’

  ‘I … umm,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Would you like more water?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘More water?’

  I shook my head. ‘How did you … I mean … what do you want?’ I felt I was not at my articulate best.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said in her soft purr, a slight blush, making her even more striking, ‘you probably won’t remember me. We met briefly at the Wildlife Park? And at the fete?’

  ‘Umm … fete … yes.’ Of course I remembered her. It would take more than a mere brain trauma to drive her from my mind. Unfortunately, memory also threw up an image of what I’d done on her shoes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ we said together and paused.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she said after a long few seconds.

  ‘Umm … I’m sorry I was … umm … sick on your shoes. I hope you managed to clean them alright?’ At the back of my mind a seed of worry was growing: had she come for compensation? Why else would she want to see me?

  ‘Don’t worry about those
old things. You couldn’t help it. I hope you are feeling better now. I’ve never seen anyone knocked out before and you looked so pale and ill.’

  I nodded and, the conversation halting, she smiled again. Her teeth were white and regular. Mrs Goodfellow, I thought, would covet them.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee or something?’ I asked, trying to stop the silence growing uncomfortable. ‘Or ginger beer? It’s home-made.’

  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely.’

  Dazed, I walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She had come to see me! My sense of confusion lifting, I grinned like a loon, performing an idiot arm-waving dance around the stove.

  ‘No sugar, please, Andy,’ she said, standing in the kitchen doorway, her eyebrows arched in amusement.

  Feeling a blush flooding my cheeks, I made as if I’d been swatting a fly.

  ‘Missed,’ I said. ‘Damn these bluebottles!’

  I doubted my acting was very convincing, yet she smiled while I tried to stop staring at her like a fixated owl.

  ‘You called me Andy,’ I said. ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Mrs Goodfellow told me. We had a little chat while we were waiting for the ambulance. Oh, I’m sorry but I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Violet. Violet King.’

  ‘Oh, right. You must be related to Felix King. He helped me out when I had a spot of bother in town. Of course, I didn’t know who he was until I saw him in the Bugle.’

  ‘Felix,’ she said, with a hint of grimace, ‘is my big brother.’

  ‘He seems very nice.’

  ‘He is. Most of the time. At least, when he’s not working.’

  The kettle whistling, I made tea and carried it through to the sitting room. She sat down on the sofa and, so that I wouldn’t appear too pushy, I pulled up one of Hobbes’s old oak chairs.

  ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ I asked before sitting.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘It’s very nice of you to call round and see me. I’m feeling very much better now.’

  ‘That’s good … Andy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Her handbag suddenly chiming, she pulled out a mobile, answering it, with an apologetic smile. ‘Hi Felix … When was that? Oh … That’s unfortunate. Can’t it wait?’ She sighed. ‘Right, I’ll go straight round and sort them out … OK … bye.’

  She rose to her feet. ‘I’m ever so sorry, but I must go. It’s business; I work with Felix.’

  ‘What about your cup of tea?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Standing up, she walked towards the front door, stopped and turned round. ‘Look, I’m sort of new to the area and I hardly know anyone. I wondered if you’d mind having dinner with me some time? Or lunch?’

  ‘Umm,’ I said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh. If you don’t want to, I understand.’

  ‘No. It’s not that … I wouldn’t mind … I’d love to … only, well, I’m a bit short of money at the moment.’

  ‘That’s OK. I can pay – if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not. I’d love to have dinner with you … or lunch … or breakfast, if it comes to that.’

  As she raised her eyebrows, another blush burned my cheeks.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply I want to spend the night with you, I just meant I’d love to go out with you at any time that’s convenient.’ I had a feeling my response hadn’t come out right. ‘Umm … it’s not that I don’t want to go to bed … umm … I mean I …. ’

  I wished I could rewind and start again.

  To my amazement, she laughed. ‘When you’re in a hole, it’s best to stop digging. I’ll tell you what, how about if I pick you up tomorrow evening at eight?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘You can decide where we go; I don’t really know any places round here. Bye, Andy.’

  ‘Bye.’

  She walked away, closing the door behind her. Shortly afterwards, hearing a car’s engine, I peeked out the window, watching as she drove away in a red, open-topped Lotus.

  Sitting down, I poured myself a cup of tea and held it, watching it grow cold, my brain, having gone into overload, unable to cope with frivolities. I could hardly believe Violet King wanted to take Andy Caplet out to dinner. No one had ever done anything like that before. Might it be possible, I thought, that my concussion was causing hallucinations? Had the last few minutes all been a wonderful dream? Yet, I could still feel where she’d placed her hand on my wrist, still smell her perfume in the air.

  ‘Wow,’ I said at last, putting my mug down on the coffee table, standing up.

  Mrs Goodfellow, arriving home a few minutes later, didn’t seem surprised to see me dancing and emitting whoops of amazement and joy.

  ‘Hello, dear, how’s your head?’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’

  Waltzing towards her, I hugged her, taking care to be gentle, for she looked all skin and bone, fragile as a dried twig, yet she’d once knocked me out with a single kick, having mistaken me for a ninja.

  ‘I like it when you smile, dear,’ she said, staring up at my mouth, ‘you’ve got lovely teeth.’

  ‘Not as lovely as hers,’ I replied.

  ‘Hers?’

  ‘Violet King’s. She came to see me and is going to pick me up and take me out for dinner tomorrow. She’s lovely.’

  ‘Ah, the charming young lady from the fete, the one with beautiful teeth? Well, if she’s coming round again, I’ll have to tidy up a bit after I’ve put the shopping away. I’d better get cracking.’

  In the circumstances, I felt I should show willing. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘By keeping out of my way. You still need your rest, dear.’

  Considering this a most satisfactory answer, I took myself upstairs for a lie down, ensuring I couldn’t overdo things. I had not yet come to terms with the idea that Violet, what a lovely name, wanted to take me out for dinner and a cynical part of my brain kept suggesting that she was just playing a cruel joke. Awful thoughts stampeded through my mind. What if she never turned up, leaving me waiting on the doorstep? What if she took me to a swanky foreign restaurant and, unable to understand the menu, I ordered a dish of raw liver … or something worse? What if I chose somewhere that wasn’t good enough and she walked out on me? My fears, overwhelming the euphoria, I sat on the bed, chewing my fingernails, fretting until Hobbes returned and Mrs G called me for lunch. Pulling myself together, I went downstairs.

  The sitting room, smelling of bleach and polish, everything that could gleam gleaming, I doubted even the tiniest speck of dust had survived the onslaught, though the room had been spotless even before. I made my way through to the kitchen, where Hobbes was waiting at the table. When he’d said grace, Mrs Goodfellow served a wonderful mixed salad with the remains of yesterday’s roast beef before vanishing. In all the months I’d been living there, I’d yet to see her eat anything, other than a taste to ensure whatever she was cooking was up to scratch.

  I ate my lunch with great relish, something she made from onions, tomatoes and spices, something that, had she ever decided to sell it, would have made her a fortune, though I doubted she’d know what to do with the money. So far as I could see, she was happy looking after Hobbes, teaching Kung Fu and collecting teeth.

  Hobbes, finishing, dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘I hear you’ve got a date tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good for you, but I advise taking it easy on the alcohol. I must warn you, though; you’ll miss a vindaloo.’

  Normally that would have upset me for Mrs G made the most wonderful, aromatic, perfectly-spiced curries, but the prospect of being with Violet overcame everything else. Still, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t have a lingering regret.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Hobbes, ‘there’s been another big cat sighting, this morning. This one made the curate come off his motorbike.’

  ‘Is he alright?’ Kevin Godley, Kev the Rev, having helped me out on a number of occasions, I almost regar
ded him as a friend.

  ‘He’s fine, though his bike’s a write-off. He says a big cat with a pheasant in its mouth ran from Loop Woods, straight across the road. He swerved, trying to miss it, but thinks there may have been an impact before he came off. By the time he’d stopped skidding and had climbed from a ditch, it had vanished.’

  ‘So does that solve the mystery of the vanishing pheasants?’

  ‘Possibly, though the cat would have to enjoy a fantastically healthy appetite to have eaten dozens of the birds in a matter of a few weeks.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but, when I was a boy, our cat, Whisky, was forever bringing birds home. They were mostly sparrows and finches, but once he came back with a duck. The thing is, though he loved to hunt, he hardly ever ate them; he was too well fed.’

  ‘That’s an interesting thought,’ said Hobbes. ‘Are you suggesting the big cat is someone’s pet? It’s certainly a possibility. Perhaps someone lets it out at night, like a normal house cat. That could explain why it’s not been found and why the pheasants keep vanishing. You might be onto something, well done.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, pleased, since he didn’t often dish out compliments and their rarity gave them added value. ‘Whisky used to torment the birds before killing them. Once, when I’d managed to get one away from him, Father made me give it back. He said it was natural for cats to play with their prey.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Hobbes, ‘but pet cats aren’t natural.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, so I tried to release them whenever I could, which wasn’t easy, since Whisky soon realised what I was up to and, if he saw me sneaking up when he’d got a bird, he’d scarper. I spent many hours chasing him round the neighbours’ gardens.’

  Hobbes laughed. ‘I suspect it might prove even more difficult to take a pheasant from a panther.’