‘Good night,’ I said, though the words didn’t sound appropriate. ‘Thank you for dinner and I’m ever so sorry for everything.’ I got out of the car.
‘It wasn’t your fault, Andy,’ she said, her voice calm and flat. ‘I’ll call you.’
She drove away as I scaled the steps to the front door and went inside. Having dreaded telling Mrs Goodfellow what had happened, I was glad she’d already turned in. I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, finding Dregs dozing in his basket; he acknowledged my return by blinking and giving a single wag of his tail, which suited me, for I wasn’t in the mood for enthusiasm. I hurried upstairs, washed and got ready for bed, terrified Hobbes would turn up so I’d have to talk to him, relieved when he hadn’t appeared as I curled up in bed.
How could he have done it? I knew that, for a policeman, he took a somewhat personalised view of the law, but surely killing someone, even Henry Bishop, was murder. Certainly, the man had deserved punishment but not death. Though I tried to convince myself I’d imagined what I’d seen, that there’d be a reasonable explanation, the image of Hobbes with blood on his face and that wild look in his eyes would not go away. I lay in the dark, jumping at every noise, fearing his return, wondering if I dared challenge him, wondering if I should just tell the police, afraid they wouldn’t believe me, scared what he might do if he learned what I’d witnessed.
Even more worrying was what he might do to Violet, if he thought she knew anything. I felt so sorry for her for, though I’d had little experience with women, I couldn’t help feeling the killing must have quite ruined her evening, not to mention her beautiful dress. Still, I admired her courage. She’d been the only one trying to help the dying man and it wasn’t her fault he’d already been beyond hope. Would I ever see her again? I doubted it, unable to escape from the fact that I’d only met her four times, three of which had been total disasters.
The last thing I expected happened. I fell asleep, sleeping well into next morning, waking in a sweat, all the blankets piled on top, as if I were an animal in its den. Since I’d not got round to drawing the curtains, I watched the dust-dancers twinkling and scintillating, living their moment in the sun’s spotlight. From the kitchen came the rich scent of baking bread: from the roof, a blackbird’s honey-throated singing. Life felt great until a deluge of memories swept all before it.
By the time I’d forced myself downstairs, I’d made a decision to say nothing to Hobbes – until the time was right.
Mrs Goodfellow was chopping vegetables at the table. ‘Good morning, dear. How was your evening?’
‘Not very good,’ I said, wondering how much she knew. ‘It started pretty well but then … well, umm … a man got killed, which rather spoiled things.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m not surprised. What happened to him?’
‘He had his throat torn out. Violet tried to help him but it was no good.’
‘That’s not nice. Did an animal do it?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’ I couldn’t tell her what I was thinking.
‘Was he anyone I know?’
‘Henry Bishop.’
‘Henry Bishop? No, I don’t know him. I never will, now. Hold on, though, isn’t he the one who hits his wife?’
‘He used to. Didn’t Hobbes tell you about it?’
‘No, dear. He must have got up early and was out before I came down. He’s taken the dog, too. He had Sugar Puffs for breakfast, so I suspect he’s busy but, of course, he’s bound to be busy if someone’s been killed.’
‘Of course,’ I said, sitting down.
‘Oh, well. Would you like any breakfast?’
‘Just toast and marmalade. I’m not that hungry.’
‘If you’re sure.’ She sliced some bread and put the kettle on.
The way she looked after me, though I did enjoy it, often made me feel uneasy, for she was Hobbes’s housekeeper, not mine; I could, in theory, have looked after myself. With a shrug, I awaited service.
‘We don’t get many killings round here,’ she said, buttering a thick slice of toast. ‘The old fellow won’t stand for them and he’ll be in a right grumpy mood until he catches the killer, whatever it is.’
‘He might be in a bad mood for some time,’ I said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Oh, well, this time, he mightn’t want to. He might think Henry deserved it; when he saw what he did to poor Mrs Bishop, he was more furious than I’ve ever seen him.’
‘He’ll still want to clear things up. He always has done, and he’s good at it.’
I nodded, wondering how much had now changed. As I munched my toast, I again tried to work out how to proceed, for the police might just laugh at my suspicions; alternatively, if they took me seriously and came to arrest him, I doubted he’d go quietly. I wasn’t even sure I could betray him after everything he’d done for me. Furthermore, I couldn’t imagine how the old girl would take it. She idolised Hobbes, treating him with a peculiar mix of motherly pride and schoolgirl crush. Another important consideration was that, if I did turn him in, I’d have to move out and fend for myself, a prospect far from pleasant, yet, wasn’t it still my duty, as a responsible citizen, to report what I’d seen? I couldn’t do it, though whether through loyalty, fear, or selfishness, I couldn’t decide.
Wondering whether the Bugle had reported the incident, I asked where the paper might be.
‘I expect the old fellow took it. But, never mind that, did you get on well with your young lady?’
‘Alright, in the circumstances I suppose. She’s ever so nice but she’s hardly going to forget an evening like that. It’s all over before it’s even started.’
‘Did she say that?’
‘No. She said she’d call me.’
‘There you go. It couldn’t have been so bad if she’s going to call you.’
Putting on a brave smile, I nodded, finishing my breakfast. I’m sure the old girl would have loved me to talk more but I wasn’t in the mood, responding to her questioning with grunts and one-word answers. My stock of optimism had run out and all that remained in store was a glut of gloom and misery.
‘I need some air,’ I said, wiping toast crumbs from my hands and heading for the street.
We were in the grip of a scorcher and, though the church clock showed it was not yet eleven, the town was oppressive as if it had been superheated. Rolling up my shirt-sleeves didn’t make me any cooler, just allowing the sun to scorch my forearms.
I went into the library, which offered welcome shade, picked up the Bugle from a rack by the door and took it to an armchair in the corner. Though Henry Bishop’s grisly death having made the front page wasn’t a surprise, I was amazed the lead story was about Felix King’s plans for the town. I ignored it, reading Phil Waring’s article about Henry, which, to my astonishment, made no suggestion that Henry might have been murdered. The police, it reported, were keeping an open mind but there was a suggestion that a panther might have done it.
It seemed Hobbes had committed the perfect crime.
Except, it wasn’t quite perfect; I was a witness, even though I hadn’t actually seen him do the dirty deed.
Thoughts swirled through my head like snowflakes in a globe: images of Hobbes covered in blood, Henry’s frightened face, Violet kneeling in his blood, the faces in Le Sacré Bleu. Unable to clear the dying man’s last gurgle from my head, my brain felt full, as if it would explode. I fought to remain calm, to think rationally as I concentrated on the reported facts, sketchy as they were. According to the article, Henry’s shotgun had been found by a tree. For a moment I tried to work out how a tree was capable of finding anything. Realising I wasn’t making sense, that I needed air and space, I ran from the library.
I don’t know what would have happened had I not stumbled across Billy Shawcroft, lying on the lawn outside.
Crying out in alarm and pain, he knelt up, rubbing his back.
‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ I said. ‘Are you alri
ght?’
‘I was better before you trod on me. Can’t a guy sunbathe in peace?’
‘Sorry, I was distracted. I saw someone with his throat torn out last night.’
‘What? That bloke in the paper that got done in by the panther? You were there?’
‘I was.’
‘They say he was a right bloody mess.’
‘Yes.’
‘But,’ asked Billy, looking puzzled, ‘didn’t it happen up Monkshood Lane at some posh restaurant?’
I nodded.
‘So, what were you doing there?’
‘I was having dinner with … umm … a … lady.’
Billy’s eyebrows going into orbit, a big grin split his face. ‘You lucky bugger!’
‘Not so lucky. The murder rather spoiled everything.’
‘I suppose so, but it wasn’t murder, was it? It was a panther.’
‘Was it?’ I asked, shaking.
Billy stared. ‘You’d better come with me. I start work in ten minutes and you look like you could do with a drink but, take it easy won’t you? I heard what you did at the fete.’ Getting to his feet, slipping his shirt back on, he took me to the Feathers.
I walked with him, dizzy, swaying as if I’d already had a few, gasping in the midday heat. He led me inside, sitting me by the door, where a breeze ruffled my hair.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Umm … I’ve no money.’
‘My treat. Whisky?’
I nodded. ‘And a lager, if you don’t mind, I’m very thirsty.’
The drinks appearing before me, I swallowed half the lager and knocked back the whisky, which, as always, had an odd flavour. According to rumour, Featherlight’s spirits were distilled in a disused warehouse in Pigton. It burned like liquid fire, melting my throat, numbing my brain, making me feel better, despite a burning sensation and a sour affliction of the stomach. Lost in my own thoughts, I lingered over the remnants of my lager until, the hands on the clock showing a quarter to one, it was time to go home for dinner.
‘Cheers, Billy,’ I said to the top of his head, all I could see of him as he poured a glass of cider for a man in a pinstripe suit.
Walking back to Blackdog Street with my stomach gurgling, I was unsure whether to blame the whisky, or the prospect of having to talk to Hobbes, something I’d have to do sometime, if I had sufficient nerve to confront him. If I hadn’t, I wasn’t certain I could stay with him, knowing what I knew.
From a purely intellectual viewpoint, I knew it would be better to do it sooner rather than later but cowardice was strong that afternoon and suggested silence would be easier.
Relieved on opening the front door to sense he hadn’t yet returned, I found the fresh tang of salad and baked bread soothing. The church clock chiming the hour, the front door opened as I took my place at the table. A moment later Dregs was jumping all over me and Hobbes walked into the kitchen with a slight limp. Despite that, he looked remarkably cheerful, if a little weary. He grinned at me.
‘I understand,’ he said, ‘that you took charge at the restaurant last night. Well done.’
I mumbled something non-controversial.
‘I’m famished,’ he said, washing his hands in the sink, ‘and parched, too.’ He sat at the table and poured a flagon of ginger beer down his throat. ‘That’s better. How was the Feathers?’
‘How do you know I’ve been there?’
‘Elementary, Andy. You reek of lager and the stuff he calls whisky and your forearms are stained with that unusual blend of old beer, cigarettes and general filth that only exists on tables at the Feathers.’
I glanced at the orange-brown stains. ‘I see. Billy bought me a drink because … umm … I trod on him. Featherlight wasn’t in.’ It was hardly an adequate explanation, but Hobbes was distracted by the vast plate of salad and meats the old girl was carrying.
‘Thanks lass,’ he said as she laid it before him.
I received a similar, if smaller offering and, after the usual delay for grace, we tucked in, treating the meal with the reverence and deep appreciation it warranted. The only words he spoke until we’d finished were when he asked me to pass the pepper. After we’d finished every last morsel, I expected he would enjoy a mug of tea in the sitting room, as usual, giving me an opportunity to ask how he was getting on with the investigation. I gulped, because, at the appropriate time, I intended voicing my suspicions.
To my relief, things didn’t go as expected. Instead of going through to the sitting room, he picked up his mug, threw in a fistful of sugar and said, ‘I’m going to take forty winks.’ Having stirred the scalding liquid, he licked his finger dry and turned to Mrs Goodfellow. ‘I’ll be out early tonight, so I’d be obliged if you’d prepare my supper for five o’clock.’ He yawned.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘I was planning beef rissoles.’
‘Thanks, lass. That will be splendid. Make plenty of ’em; it may be a long night.’ With that, he retired to his bedroom from where, a few minutes later, a series of bone-shaking snores emerged.
Taking my tea into the garden, I sat beneath the old apple tree as the afternoon grew still and humid. Surrounded by the hum of bees and the soporific, heavy scent of flowers, I, too, nodded off, awaking to the sound of thunder. The sky was leaden, the first fat raindrops were shaking the leaves, as I grabbed my mug, still half-full of cold tea, and fled inside. The kitchen clock showed five-thirty.
I was mostly pleased to see the old girl washing up Hobbes’s dishes, to know he’d already gone out, despite realising that delay would only make accusations more difficult.
Dregs was dozing in the doorway to the sitting room. Stepping over him, switching on the television, I sat on the sofa, waiting for the news. Henry Bishop hadn’t made the national headlines, only coming in third on the local news, behind reports of a political scandal in the council, and a devastating fire in a warehouse near Pigton.
‘Good evening,’ said Rebecca Hussy, a pretty, fresh-faced reporter in a crisp white blouse, addressing the camera outside Le Sacré Bleu. ‘Last night, around ten o’clock, Henry Bishop, a respected local farmer and businessman, was discovered bleeding in the doorway of the exclusive restaurant behind me. Despite staff and customers battling desperately to save him and paramedics rushing to the scene, Mr Bishop died. According to unconfirmed reports, he had suffered severe injuries to his throat, injuries consistent with a vicious attack from a large predator. Terrified local residents say a big cat, probably a panther, has been sighted on numerous occasions recently. Red-faced officials admit they have not taken the reports seriously.’
So, the big cat story was holding up; Hobbes was not even a suspect. Rebecca went on to interview Mrs Bishop, who appeared distraught at the death of her husband, describing him as ‘one in a million, the sort of man who would never have hurt a fly.’ There was hardly anything new, except for one fact that made me gasp; both barrels of Henry’s shotgun had been fired. Might that, I wondered, have explained Hobbes’s limp? Flinching as a rumble of thunder rattled the windows, I dived deep into a dark pool of worry.
‘Rissoles!’
Mrs Goodfellow’s voice ringing in my ears, I jumped up, barking my shin on the coffee table. Her constant sneaking up on me could not be good for my heart.
‘Your rissoles are ready,’ she announced. ‘You’d best eat them while they’re hot.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, following her into the kitchen where she dished up a plate of rissoles and good brown gravy with a selection of nicely steamed vegetables. After the first bite, I decided, once again, to forgive her pretty much anything, so long as she continued to feed me, for although I hadn’t been much looking forward to supper, having unpleasant memories of Mother’s dry, tasteless cannonballs, the old girl’s take on the humble rissole would have delighted the fussiest gourmet.
Later, relaxing in the sitting room with a nice, fresh mugful of tea while the old girl dusted the spotless room, my thoughts returned to Hobbes. ‘Di
d he say what he was doing tonight?’ I asked.
‘No, dear, I expect it’s something to do with the panther. He said he’d got a scent of it last night, so he’ll probably try to catch it.’
‘On his own?’
‘I expect so. He wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.’
‘But what if Henry Bishop wasn’t killed by a panther? What if someone had murdered him and the panther was getting the blame?’
‘Then, I’m sure the old fellow would have mentioned it,’ she said, rubbing the television screen with her duster before returning to the kitchen to wash up.
I was neither convinced nor comforted. First, it had been Arthur Crud. Now, it was Henry Bishop. Who would be next? Furthermore, how many others might he have murdered in the name of justice? Though somewhere, in a dark corner of my mind, a vigilante was applauding what he’d done, the rest of me couldn’t help but feel that the two men should, at least, have had a fair trial with a proper, human jury. I couldn’t blame him for detesting rapists and wife-beaters but he held strong views on thieves and dangerous drivers (except himself) and I wondered where it might end. He had no right to act as judge, jury and executioner.
I wished I had someone to talk to. Violet would have been best but I could see no hope after what I’d put her through. Though I knew it hadn’t been my fault, if I’d let her take me somewhere else, somewhere less swanky, she wouldn’t have spent the evening kneeling in a dead man’s blood. Yet, maybe, I reasoned, it had been for the best; I’d have screwed things up anyway, sooner or later. Some things were inevitable. The rain beat against the window, thunder crashed overhead, I jumped and unplugged the telly, sitting in the gloom, until the storm passed. When the rain stopped just before nine o’clock, I slipped out for a walk.
The evening air cooling my heated brow, I revelled in the fresh smell of the town’s air, washed clean of car fumes and stagnant drains. As I stepped over a puddle, I thought, what the heck and jumped and splashed my way down The Shambles, going wherever my fancy took me, sometimes striding out, sometimes dawdling, or looking in shop windows. I half wished I’d taken Dregs, but having been asleep under the kitchen table, he didn’t look like a dog that wanted to be disturbed.
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 12
