‘Well you have, it’s nearly half-past six and the lass is about to dish up rib-eye beef steaks. So wash your hands and come along, and quickly, because I’m starving.’
Doing as I was told, I tried to clear my mind, tried to convince myself I’d been imagining things. After all, why would he keep a body in a crate in his attic when he had all those tunnels? Disgusted with myself because, though he’d just saved me once again, I didn’t entirely trust him, I resolved to try to be fair.
The aroma of frying steak and onions percolating upstairs proving far stronger than mere self-disgust, I headed for the kitchen, pondering how, since I’d been staying at 13 Blackdog Street, I’d always eaten so well and so much and yet my waistline had shrunk. I put it down to all the exercise, though nervous terror might also have played a role.
After the truly delicious, succulent rib-eye steaks with onions and wonderful crispy, fluffy chips, with a mug of tea in my hand and a satisfying fullness in my belly, I sat on the sofa, where Hobbes was deep in thought.
‘How’s Eric?’ I asked.
‘Eric? He’s still undergoing treatment for shock. They tell me he’ll be alright but he’s not happy.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t be happy if an elephant had demolished your café.’
‘I don’t have a café anymore, but I take your point. Apart from swearing, he was almost speechless, yet I got the impression something was worrying him. Yes, I know an elephant demolishing his means of livelihood would worry him, but I had the notion there was more.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He seemed uneasy, as if he might be scared of something.’
‘Or somebody,’ I suggested, wondering if the reason for Eric’s discomfiture might be sitting beside me.
‘Or someone,’ he agreed. ‘What made you suggest that?’
‘Umm … I don’t know really,’ I said, the familiar heat of a blush rising around my ears. It reminded me of the time Editorsaurus Rex overheard me calling him a fat, dozy prat. The consequences still made me cringe.
Hobbes took my remark at face value. ‘Oh, well, I wondered if something had occurred to you, too. You see, I have a hunch the elephant incident was deliberate.’
‘But why?’ I asked, filled with scepticism. ‘I can understand anyone getting upset with Eric, but using an elephant to get back at him is ridiculous. It must just have been a bizarre accident.’
‘That’s what everyone at the station says,’ said Hobbes. ‘They reckon it would be too complicated, too expensive and too ludicrous for anyone to go to the trouble of transporting an elephant merely to annoy Eric. Maybe they’re right, or maybe that’s what someone wants us to think. In any case, Eric is refusing to talk and I haven’t been able to persuade him: the nurses were keeping too close an eye on me. I need to think.’
I would have liked to ask more but, turning on the television, he sat back, relaxing, apparently enthralled by the black and white cowboy film. I watched for a while until, a cougar attacking the hero, I got the heebie-jeebies and retreated to the kitchen.
Mrs Goodfellow, sitting at the table, having washed and polished bits of cutlery and wine glasses until they glittered, was replacing them in the picnic basket. ‘I’m making sure everything’s ready for tomorrow, dear,’ she said, her false teeth grinning from the yellow duster by her side. They gleamed as bright as the cutlery.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Not at all, it’s nice to find a use for the old basket. It brings back such memories; my husband bought it for me when we were in America.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, ‘I found some photos of you in America in the attic.’
‘Happy days!’ she said. ‘At least they were happy for Mr Goodfellow and me, but the old fellow found it tough going.’
‘It couldn’t have been too bad; it looked as if he’d got himself a girlfriend.’
Mrs G frowned. ‘She got him more like, and took advantage of him.’
‘Really?’ I asked, sniggering at the revelation. ‘Shouldn’t she have made an honest man out of him?’
‘He always was honest. I mean she took advantage of his generous nature.’
‘How?’
‘She lied to him, making up stories of her hard, tragic life until he felt obliged to take care of her, sorting out her debts, giving her money he couldn’t afford to lose. She was a nasty piece of work.’
‘Was she called Froggy because of her eyes?’
‘No.’
‘She wasn’t French was she?’
‘No, dear, it was because she caught flies with her tongue, a very nasty habit, if quite useful in a field full of hippies.’
‘You’re having me on. Aren’t you?’
She grinned. ‘Actually, we called her Froggy because of her voice.’
‘Wasn’t that a bit mean?’
‘I suppose so, but it was what her friends called her. Others called her “the Leech”, which was as fitting a name as you could hope for.’
‘What was her real name?’
‘She said it was Enola-Gaye Johnson, but I think she was lying.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I don’t know. When the old fellow’s money ran out she ran out too and we never saw her again, for which I, for one, was grateful. She’d left him so low on money he had to get a job.’
‘What did he do? Detective work?’
‘No, he got into the movies.’
‘A film star?’
‘He was hardly a star, dear. He was an extra.’
‘Was he in anything?’
‘Just one film, dear. He played a gorilla in Planet of the Apes.’
‘Quite a stretch for him, then,’ I said. I don’t think she got the joke.
‘Not so much as you might think, because he had acted before, playing the bear in the Sorenchester Players’ production of A Winter’s Tale in ’62 and he was in their production of Frankenstein, though I can’t remember what he played.’
‘He must be a talented actor.’ I smiled. ‘And it’s amazing he never became a star.’
‘Maybe he would have been,’ she said, ‘if it hadn’t been for the incident in the woods.’
‘What was that?’ I asked.
‘It was so hot, we’d been skinny-dipping in a beaver lake,’ she said, blushing, ‘thinking no one else was around. After a while, the old fellow noticed a racoon rummaging around in our things and ran over to make sure it didn’t do any damage, not realising he’d been spotted by a cameraman. Next thing we knew, he was headline news. They thought they’d filmed Bigfoot.’
‘They thought Hobbes was Bigfoot?’ I said, faking amazement, remembering the snippet of film I’d seen on the telly, understanding why the photo of him in the woods had looked so familiar.
‘Yes, dear, which was quite ridiculous, because he looks nothing like Bigfoots. Or are they Bigfeet?’
‘So you know what Bigfoot looks like?’ I asked, chuckling.
‘Of course, dear, we stayed with some for a few days. They’re very nice, if a bit smelly.’
Once again my view of the world had widened. Of course, it was possible she was having me on but I didn’t think so, being quite astute about such things. I’m not sure which concept my brain found it hardest to accept: Hobbes in a Hollywood movie, or the old girl staying with Bigfoot. Thinking about it gave me a headache and I turned in early.
I was enjoying the picnic with Violet, lying next to her in a sun-drenched clearing, when she stood up, saying she was hot and needed to cool off in the lake, the lake that had mysteriously replaced the trees. As I watched her walking, naked, into the water, wondering where my own clothes had gone, I ran forward, my feet becoming entangled in delphiniums, and fell, splashing and thrashing. When I was able to stand upright, I hugged her, amazed how strong and hairy she’d become, appalled to see it wasn’t her anymore. Somehow, I’d got hold of Bigfoot and, pushing the beast away, I fled towards the shore, only running into deep water, where green-skinned
girls licked up flies and croaked. Hobbes appeared in the trees riding an elephant, while Dregs snarled as he gnawed on a rotting corpse he’d dragged from a hole in the ground.
I woke up, refreshed if confused by the vivid dream, got up and drew back the curtains. Since brittle sunlight filled the room, it looked as though the weather forecasters had got it right; not that I relied on them, for Hobbes’s predictions were far more accurate. Looking out on the day, my stomach lurched as hope, excitement and terror collided, remembering that, in only a few hours, Violet was going to take me on a picnic.
Still, a few nerves, the odd butterfly in my stomach, were not enough to put me off breakfast. Going down, I discovered Hobbes had eaten hours ago, and Mrs G was preparing scrambled eggs for me, scrambled eggs as yellow as primroses, as light and fluffy as … in truth, I doubted I’d ever eaten anything so light and delicious, except possibly her cheese soufflé, which, in my opinion, she didn’t make often enough. Mind you, I thought that about all of her meals.
The problem was that, as soon as I’d finished, I began to feel twitchy, unable to work out how I’d fill the time until the picnic. Mrs G was already preparing food but refused my offer of help. Normally, I’d have felt relieved to have asked and got away with it, but I needed something to occupy my mind. I was saved by Hobbes appearing in his smart suit.
‘Are you going anywhere nice?’
‘Henry Bishop’s funeral.’
‘Can I come?’ I asked, thinking it would at least get me out for a couple of hours.
‘If you want to,’ said Hobbes, sounding surprised, ‘but get a move on, I’m going in five minutes. Make yourself respectable and don’t wear the blazer you brought down last night.’
‘I wasn’t intending to,’ I said, running upstairs and scrambling into Mr Goodfellow’s dark-grey suit, a suit I’d never worn before but which, as I’d expected, fitted uncannily well. I checked its pockets for money, finding, to my regret, that they were empty, apart from a neatly pressed silk handkerchief, which I requisitioned, even though orange is not really my colour.
‘You took your time,’ said Hobbes, glancing at his watch, ‘so we’ll have to hurry, I’m glad to say. Excellent.’ Clapping his hands, he grinned like a maniac.
‘I wasn’t that long,’ I said, already regretting what I’d let myself in for.
‘Long enough. Now let’s move … not you, Dregs, you’re staying.’
The dog’s ears and tail drooped.
‘There’s no use you looking like that. You can’t go until you learn how to behave with decorum.’ Turning away, opening the front door, he led me to the car and drove to Henry Bishop’s funeral in the manner of a man hurtling to his own. So much for decorum, I thought.
We arrived in time, parked outside and walked respectfully into the chapel. The funeral turned out to be a cremation.
‘Mrs Bishop’s taking no chances,’ Hobbes whispered, as we took our seats at the back.
Despite, or because of my shock at his lack of respect, I sniggered.
‘Now then, Andy,’ he said with a frown.
It made things worse. I chuckled. Hobbes, shaking his head, trying to look stern, despite his lips twitching into a grin, failed to prevent a guffaw bursting from me and resorted to clamping his great hairy paw over my mouth. Though it dammed the stream of laughter, the build-up continued, with little snorts escaping from my nose, until that too was blocked. Tears welled up, overflowing down my cheeks, while my body shook with helpless laughter, though, with both nose and mouth blocked, I feared I would die laughing. Fortunately, Hobbes, knowing his stuff, managed to regulate the air supply, keeping me alive and (relatively) quiet.
A man in a black suit, one stinking of mothballs, leaned over the pew. ‘Is he alright?’
‘He’s very upset,’ said Hobbes.
‘Did he know Mr Bishop well?’
‘Not especially, he’s just very sensitive.’
The organ music starting, I regained some control and he released me, though occasional titters and smirks still found their way out, some turning into strangled chuckles or broad grins. Several disapproving stares were directed my way, even though I was doing my utmost to avoid eye contact, aware the slightest stimulus might set me off again. As sanity returned, I was astonished how many had turned up to see the end of Henry. Some I recognised as local farmers and traders, yet there was also a number of smart, tough-looking young men in sharp business suits, suggesting Henry had enjoyed a wider circle of friends than I would have believed.
Mrs Bishop, her face concealed behind a black veil, the only representative of her sex, appeared grief-stricken, though I’d have thought she’d have been glad to get rid of the old bastard. Despite the manner of his death, I felt scant sympathy for him. The service began, dragging on, while my grins abated and gave way to yawns. The chapel was small and white, with a purple carpet and wooden pews, a coffin, presumably filled with Henry Bishop, at the front, beside a gold-coloured lectern, from where a bored-looking vicar spouted his stuff.
At length, it was Mrs Bishop’s turn. Rising slowly, she approached the lectern and addressed us. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘to all of you for coming to mourn my poor darling Henry. Of the people you meet, only one or two enter your life, touching you so deeply that forever after they remain a part of you. Some are but brief candles that flicker and blow out in the storms of life but Henry was like a bonfire, a beacon of warmth and light in my life. I hoped he would burn forever. He was my husband for nigh on thirty years and I don’t regret a single day of it.’
My mouth dropped open in disbelief; Hobbes clumped it shut with the back of his hand as Mrs Bishop carried on eulogising her late husband in the same vein for several minutes, almost making me believe we’d gone to the wrong service. She told of meeting Henry in Portsmouth, when he was an able seaman, she a barmaid, saying it had been love at first sight. By the time she finished, I was blinking back tears. Human relationships were obviously far deeper and more complex than I’d have believed. Even so, I was glad when the coffin slid behind the curtains and we’d seen the last of Henry, and even more glad when the service ended.
Hobbes and I made our escape as the congregation began to disperse.
‘Alas, poor Henry,’ said Hobbes, grinning.
‘I’m sorry about sniggering,’ I said. ‘I think it was nerves.’
‘It did suggest a lack of respect for the dear departed, but I wouldn’t worry about it; I think we covered it up.’
‘What did you make of Mrs Bishop’s spiel?’ I asked.
‘It was interesting and puzzling, yet I’m sure she’ll get over him and see him in his true colours. I’d like to hope she’ll soon be a merry widow.’
I nodded, wondering whether there’d been a hint of disappointment in his voice. My suspicion that he’d murdered Henry hadn’t quite gone away. A puff of smoke billowed from the crematorium’s chimney, and a faint whiff like cooking bacon made my mouth water, until a sudden suspicion the two were connected, nearly made me sick. My suit felt suddenly too heavy and restrictive, sweat trickled down my back.
‘I wonder,’ I said, trying to break my chain of thought, ‘what’s happened to the panthers. Have there been any more sightings?’
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Hobbes, strolling towards the car. ‘Yet, perhaps it’s not surprising. They’re very good at hiding and it’s been raining heavily.’
‘Don’t they like the rain?’
‘I’ve no idea but people are less inclined to go out in it and so there are fewer eyes to see them.’ He paused, staring at something. ‘Of course, it’s possible they have gone away.’
‘I see,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘No, you don’t, you’re not looking in the right place.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked turning to where he was looking.
‘Mice,’ he said, pointing to a rubbish bin where three or four brown mice were scurrying and squeaking over a discarded packet of sandwiches.
&n
bsp; ‘Fascinating,’ I said. I’ve never been keen on rodents since a hamster savaged my ear.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘But don’t you see what it means?’
‘No.’
‘While the cat’s away, the mice will play.’
‘That’s just a saying.’
‘There’s often truth in old sayings.’
‘Yeah, I know. But … really?’
He fixed me with an expression of such total innocence I knew he’d been playing with me. Probably.
The congregation was leaving the chapel, heading for the cars. Hobbes, raising his hand to shut me up, watched with hunter’s eyes. I watched too, with no real interest, although one of the mourners, one of the tough-looking young men I’d noticed earlier, seemed familiar.
‘The man in the dark suit,’ I said, ‘I’ve seen him before.’
‘Nearly everyone’s wearing dark suits, except Mrs Bishop,’ said Hobbes, ‘and you saw them all in the chapel.’
‘That guy getting into the grey BMW – I saw him yesterday at the Greasy Pole and I was sure I’d seen him before.’
‘There were many people at the Greasy Pole yesterday, and Sorenchester is such a small town it’s not surprising you see the same ones now and again.’
‘I know, but I’m sure he’d gone before you sorted it all out.’
‘So did others. Some people are busy, you know?’
I didn’t think the remark was directed at me, since he’d never hinted that he might consider me a freeloader, but it hit hard. I was probably feeling a little vulnerable, for it had crossed my mind that Violet might think me a loser. After all, she was holding down a responsible job, at least so I assumed, not actually knowing what she did, she was wealthy, she was gorgeous, she was sophisticated, she was intelligent. Surely I thought, she would tire of me, sooner or later and, though I hoped it would be later, I had an idea getting dumped would hurt more as time passed. Perhaps I’d have to enter a monastery to get over her: or an asylum, if such things still existed.
‘Where do you go?’ asked Hobbes, dragging me back to the present.
‘What?’
‘Where do you go when that vacant expression appears on your face?’
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 17
