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

by Martin, Wilkie

  After breakfast, I just wished the day would get a move on. I spent my time pottering round the garden or loitering in the house, trying to avoid Mrs Goodfellow, who insisted on twinkling and digging me in the ribs. In mitigation, she did, at least, feed me with a world-beating pea and ham soup at lunchtime.

  Afterwards, she helped me sort out some clothes for the evening: smart-casual was what she had in mind. Ferreting through cupboards, chests of drawers and wardrobes, she dug out a crisp white shirt, a silk tie bearing a crest that meant nothing to me, a navy-blue blazer with gleaming buttons, and a pair of white deck shoes. It all looked pretty good, though I did rebel, not wishing to appear foppish, when she produced a straw boater.

  Apart from a brief encounter at breakfast, I didn’t see Hobbes until he returned for his supper. Mrs Goodfellow’s curry had been steaming and bubbling and enticing me with mouth-watering aromas for hours, and his evident delight as he devoured it proved too much to bear. I had to go and sit in the garden with Dregs until it was all over.

  Then it was time for a bath, to get dressed, to ensure I was presentable. When, finally, reasonably satisfied with the results, I went down to the sitting room to fidget. Hobbes, who having finished the Demon Sudoku, was preparing to go out, told me that Henry Bishop, having dug out another shotgun, had taken a pot shot at one of Les Bashem’s kids before running away. Though, fortunately, the child had not been hurt, he had decided to arrest Henry. Despite being more focussed on how long the clock was taking to reach eight o’clock, I felt a twinge of pity for the hunted man, who wouldn’t, I suspected, get very far before retribution took him. Still, I thought as Hobbes left, the bastard deserved everything that was going to happen to him.

  A car pulling up outside, I leaped up, looking out the window. It was a middle-aged couple in a Volvo. Sitting back down, I tried to keep still, watching the clock’s hands, working in slow motion, at last reach eight o’clock and creep on to five past. I knew she wasn’t going to turn up, knew my fears had come true; it had all been a cruel joke and she’d diddled me out of an exceptional curry. Sighing, I got to my feet, intending to hide my disappointment in my room.

  The doorbell ringing, Dregs burst into the sitting room, barking madly.

  ‘Shut up!’ I yelled.

  Since he hadn’t quite forgiven me for shocking him the previous day, he retreated to the kitchen with a martyred look as I opened the door.

  ‘Hi,’ said Violet.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  She looked stunning in a simple red dress, her smooth, tanned shoulders glowing in the evening light. Her hair was up and the soft curve of her neck took my breath away.

  ‘Hello.’ She smiled over my shoulder at Mrs Goodfellow. ‘Shall we go, Andy?’

  ‘Umm … yeah.’

  ‘Make sure to have him home by midnight,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘The lad needs his sleep.’

  ‘Of course.’ She waved goodbye, and led me to her gleaming red Lotus, parked a few yards down the street.

  She started the engine. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Le Sacré Bleu.’

  I suddenly realised it was my responsibility to tell her how to find it and, though I had been out that way with Hobbes on many occasions, I’d mostly had my eyes shut: fortunately, the car had a satnav. Violet liked to drive fast but only when the road conditions permitted and I felt quite safe. The wind, the growl of the engine and the blare of the classical music she was playing meant conversation was impossible, which was just as well, because I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  After about fifteen minutes and one nearly wrong turning, when the satnav suggested a short cut via the River Soren, we crossed a bridge into the car park of Le Sacré Bleu.

  Stopping the engine, she unbuckled her seat belt. ‘Nice place,’ she said.

  It was. Before us was an ancient manor, its mellow, honey-coloured stone, clad in an ivy gown, snuggled in a hollow at the foot of Helmet Hill. The little River Soren, fringed with dancing reeds, dotted with jerky moorhens, wound past on the edge of a daisy-strewn lawn. A lazy heron flew above and sheep murmured in the surrounding fields. It looked idyllic, except that the car park was worryingly full.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ she asked. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘OK.’

  I gnawed my lip as we followed our long shadows down the stone-paved path to the entrance, cursing myself silently as an idiot for not having thought to book a table. A familiar, cold feeling had gripped my stomach and the memory of all those parked cars was twisting my insides. Still, I had no choice; I had to go through with it.

  Violet ushered me inside into a pleasantly cool room, with dark beams, white tablecloths, sparkling glasses and gleaming silver, a room where rich aromas tempted all taste buds. Noticing every table in sight was occupied, I swallowed, trying to look suave.

  ‘This is obviously the place to be,’ said Violet. ‘It’s a great choice.’

  I attempted a nonchalant smile as a tall man in a white shirt and bow tie approached.

  ‘Bonsoir, monsieur, mademoiselle. Welcome to Le Sacré Bleu. How may I help you?’

  ‘Umm … a table for two, please?’

  ‘Have you booked, sir?’

  ‘Umm … well ….’

  The man sucked his teeth and glanced around him. ‘I’m afraid we are rather busy tonight.’

  ‘There’s no problem is there, Andy?’ asked Violet.

  ‘Umm ….’

  ‘Andy?’ The man smiled. ‘Ah, so you must be Monsieur Andy Caplet?’

  ‘Must I? Umm … yes, I suppose I must be.’

  ‘Excellent. Then we have a booking for a table for two persons at eight-thirty. Follow me, please.’ Picking up a couple of menus, he led us to a table by an open window, letting in a refreshing breeze and the scent of flowers.

  ‘I see you have influence,’ said Violet.

  I nodded, trying to keep it together, dazed by what had just happened, ridiculously afraid another Andy Caplet would turn up, demanding his booking.

  The man seated us and handed out the menus. ‘Would you care for aperitifs?’

  ‘No, we’ve brought our own.’ I said, not thinking straight. ‘Oh, you mean drinks?’

  Violet laughed. ‘Very funny. I’d like a pastis, please.’

  ‘Very good, mademoiselle. And for monsieur?’

  ‘A pint of lager … umm … on second thoughts, I’ll have the same.’

  As he departed, I smiled across at Violet, who smiled back. I smiled again and sent my gaze to wander round the room, searching for something to say.

  ‘This is really nice,’ she said before anything occurred. ‘Isn’t the view delightful? The river’s lovely.’

  ‘It is. I’ve never been here before but Hobbes reckons it’s good.’

  ‘He scares me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘He scares me a bit, too, sometimes – but he’s been very kind.’

  The introduction of Hobbes, coinciding with the arrival of our drinks, breached the dam and conversation began to flow. Suddenly, I was chatting to her like to an old friend, explaining about Hobbes, what he’d done for me, about his crime-busting, but I couldn’t bring myself to expose his dark side or to mention the really odd bits. I didn’t want to present him in a bad light. After all, he could do that well enough for himself.

  When, a few minutes later, a waitress arrived to take our orders, we had to send her away as neither of us had got as far as opening the menu. When I did, my heart sank for most of the words, except for ratatouille and meringue, were in French.

  ‘This is inspired,’ said Violet. ‘I think I’ll start with the Pieds de Cochon Farci au Foie Gras et aux Langoustines. How about you?’

  ‘Umm … I might have the same.’

  ‘Really? It’s not everyone who likes pigs’ trotters.’

  ‘Oh … I didn’t think … Sorry, but my French isn’t very good.’

  ‘Mine is.’ She smiled. ‘When I was a little girl we used to holi
day in a chateau by the Rhone. I’ll help you.’

  It felt weird to admit my ignorance and not feel stupid about it, for something about her made me secure and I felt no awkwardness as she translated and explained. I even felt secure enough to tell her about my holiday on the Algarve, when I’d ordered chocos, expecting something chocolaty, instead being presented with a plate of cuttlefish. I’d put a brave face on it, forcing them down, bones and all. She laughed, seeming to find me very amusing. In the end, with her help, I settled for ‘potage du jour’ followed by ‘Fillet of Venison and Confit of Shoulder with Dry Fruits Sauce’. She went for ‘Shank of Pork Confit with Lentils Sauce and Bacon’ and ordered a bottle of Château something.

  The food was superb, nearly matching Mrs G’s, though it felt disloyal to think so. Nevertheless, I didn’t appreciate it as much as it deserved because Violet was taking so much of my attention. For some reason, and it wasn’t the wine, because I was being sensible, I felt utterly relaxed in her company, absolutely comfortable. She laughed or offered sympathy in all the right places, smiling whenever our eyes met. In my opinion, and realising I’d only just met her, we were right for each other. If I’d have had time to think, I would have been amazed.

  At length, excusing herself, she headed towards the Ladies. I watched her walk away, appreciating the sway of her hips, the way her dark hair gleamed in the candlelight, noticing with some indignation and, I admit, a touch of smugness, that she’d not gone unnoticed by other men. While I tried to look cool, as if accustomed to dining with a beautiful woman, I still found it unbelievable that she’d picked me and had to keep on trying to quiet the niggling part of my brain warning that good things didn’t happen to me and that, if they did, the price I’d pay would be terrible.

  Once she was out of sight, I permitted myself a sip of wine, savouring the smooth, mellow fruitiness for the first time. She obviously knew her wines, for even I could tell it was a cracking good one, nearly as good as Hobbes’s.

  Outside, a cow bellowed, a little owl yipped, and a couple of muffled pops suggested a farmer was waging a vendetta against the wood pigeon population. Inside, I was revelling in how much I was enjoying the evening, smiling complacently at other diners, occasionally peering out into the garden, which was already filling with dusk. Across the road, I could make out part of Loop Woods, which, beyond the shadow cast by Helmet Hill, glowed bright and brittle in the red light. In that moment I felt a chill, as if something was watching me. Perhaps, deep under the cover of the trees, a panther really was lurking. Taking a gulp of wine, I tried to ward off my foolish fears. Violet seemed to be taking her time doing whatever women do.

  As I looked back into the restaurant, I glimpsed a movement from the garden, as if something had slipped from light into shadow. I jerked back, staring, unable at first to see anything out of the ordinary, nearly convinced my mind had been playing tricks. Then, without a doubt, there was a movement. Something darker than twilight was heading my way. It was nowhere near tall enough to be human and, though, it might have been as big as a panther, its lurching, uncoordinated movements were anything but feline. As it moved from my field of vision, I wished, for the first time that evening, that Hobbes was with me. I tried to persuade myself that I was being ridiculous. What danger could there be inside a crowded restaurant? But where was Violet? Feeling a sudden cold horror that she’d decided to step outside for a moment, I heard a cry from the garden.

  I stood up and ran towards the door, side-stepping an astonished waiter, his arms full of plates, and jerked the door open. A hunched figure grabbed my blazer, whispered ‘Help me’ and fell face forward onto my feet. A woman screamed and the restaurant was in turmoil. Blood had splattered the stone floor, spotting my trousers; the figure, a man, making a low, bubbling groan, lay still.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Violet’s voice, coming from behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief. The situation seemed to have paralysed everyone, except for her. Pushing through the gawping diners, brushing me aside, she knelt by the body and rolled it onto its back.

  It was Henry Bishop, his shirt front dripping with the blood that gushed from a jagged wound in his throat.

  8

  Henry Bishop lay in a spreading pool of his own blood, as Violet, pressing her slim white fingers to his neck, fought to stem the dreadful flow. It was to no avail. He twitched, gurgled and her hands were drenched by one dreadful, final haemorrhage. His life had ended and, though he’d been a violent, wife-beating bully, no one deserved to die like that.

  Everyone in the restaurant was standing in a wide, staring semi-circle around us: not quite everyone, for someone was vomiting.

  ‘Is he alright?’ asked the headwaiter, his face as white as his shirt.

  ‘No, he’s not all right,’ said Violet in a quiet voice.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ The headwaiter waved his hands in the air like a man distracted.

  ‘Do you think he’s dead?’ asked a fat man in a too-tight dickey-bow. ‘Have you checked his pulse?’

  I doubted Henry had enough throat left to check.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asked the headwaiter, teetering on the verge of hysterics.

  Violet looked up, the hem of her dress dark with blood. ‘Could someone get help?’

  Nobody moved, all of them paralysed, shocked.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, ‘if someone can lend me their phone?’

  A young woman, looking horrified, scared, rummaged in her handbag and handed me her mobile. Calling 999, I requested an ambulance and the police before trying Hobbes’s mobile. He didn’t answer so, giving the phone back, I knelt to help Violet.

  The headwaiter was clutching his head, moaning. ‘We’ll be ruined. What will become of us? What could have done such a thing?’

  ‘Perhaps it was that panther,’ said a bald, red-faced man.

  Panic ensued, diners running, grabbing handbags and jackets. A plump, middle-aged couple headed towards the door, as though intending to paddle through the blood.

  I stood up, feeling I had to do something. ‘Everyone stay where you are,’ I shouted. To my surprise, the stampede ceased, as all eyes looked to me for leadership and, though I could feel my cheeks reddening, I knew the procedure.

  ‘No one else must touch the body, or leave the building until the police say so. We don’t know what killed him yet and they may require statements.’

  Some nodded, a few frowned but no one moved for the door. The woman whose phone I’d borrowed began to cry.

  ‘If it’s the bloody panther that killed him,’ said the red-faced man, pushing towards me, ‘it’s not murder and there’s no reason to stay. I want to leave.’

  ‘We don’t know a panther did it,’ I said. ‘Besides, if it did, who’s to say it’s not still outside?’

  My argument striking home, the red-faced man returned to his table, where, to my astonishment, he sat down and carried on eating his steak. ‘Shame to waste it,’ he said.

  Although some, agreeing with him, returned to their meals, most sat, grey-faced, waiting for the police.

  ‘Andy,’ said Violet.

  She was still kneeling and, despite everything, I couldn’t help admiring the sparkle of her eyes, her brave attempt at a smile, the hint of cleavage as I looked down.

  ‘I need to wash,’ she said.

  I helped her to her feet, trying not to recoil at the sticky, congealing blood on her trembling hands, supporting her towards the door of the Ladies. ‘Will you be alright?’

  She nodded and I turned away, wiping my hands on a napkin before covering Henry’s corpse with a white tablecloth. As it turned red, I had to fight the urge to throw up. People were looking at me as if expecting that I’d take charge but, having done my bit, I knew what had to be done next.

  Beckoning the headwaiter, I asked him to fetch me a brandy.

  For all the comprehension I saw in his eyes, I might have been speaking Swahili. ‘Get me a brandy,’ I said in slow, measured tones, ‘a larg
e one. Now!’

  At last, he nodded, staggering to the bar. As he reached for a glass, his hand was shaking so much he shattered it. Though his second attempt was better, he still slopped more onto the counter than into the glass before finally filling it, handing it to me, and pouring one for himself. I took it back to our table, sipping, comforted by the fiery liquid searing its way to my stomach. Hearing an approaching siren, I glanced out into the garden.

  Something large was moving in the deepening darkness, something stealthy, something approaching the restaurant. I gasped as Violet returned to her seat.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked in a small voice, ‘is something out there?’

  ‘I think so, but I’m not sure what.’

  She was pale and trembling as I reached out to hold her hands.

  ‘It’ll be alright,’ I said, ‘the police will be here soon and, anyway, I’m sure we’re safe inside.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing my fingers until I yelped.

  Another movement caught my attention, much closer than before, caught in the beam of a car’s headlights. A hefty figure, more ape-like than cat-like, was loping towards the window. I groaned.

  Violet gazed into my eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I shook my head, unable to speak. Hobbes was out there, with blood on his face, a feral look in his dark eyes.

  A few moments later, two policemen entered and took charge. I was soon too busy relating what I’d seen to think about Hobbes, except to avoid mentioning him. In my defence, I’d assumed he’d walk in to help with the investigation and could give an innocent and reasonable explanation.

  Some paramedics, a pair of detectives and men in white suits turned up but Hobbes never showed.

  After we’d all given our names and addresses, and an ambulance had taken away its gory cargo, we were allowed home. It had just gone midnight.

  I was dazed as I left. I held Violet’s hand while she led me to the car and strapped me in.

  ‘You certainly know how to show a girl an interesting time,’ she said with a grimace as she drove me home.

  When at last we reached Blackdog Street, I asked her in for coffee, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness at her refusal, for my eyelids felt heavy, as if coated with lead, and I couldn’t stop yawning. I’d known all along that the evening would end in disaster but could hardly believe it had gone so spectacularly wrong.