‘How are you feeling?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow.
‘Not so bad,’ I said.
‘That’s good. You’ve been rather ill and Doctor Procter was quite worried – we all were – but the antibiotics seem to be working. Would you like any breakfast?’
‘Umm … yes. Yes, I would. I really fancy scrambled eggs. I’m starving.’
Smiling, she walked away. After a few minutes, I sat up abruptly, feeling something terribly wrong around my waist. I put my hand beneath the sheets. Appalled at what I touched, I threw back the blankets and stared in absolute, horrified disbelief. Someone, and I didn’t need to guess who, had encased my nether regions in a nappy.
A tray appeared at the bedroom door, followed by Mrs Goodfellow.
‘Why,’ I asked, pointing, ‘am I wearing this?’
‘To keep you dry.’
‘But …’
‘You needed it, dear, to stop you wetting the bed.’
‘I did what?’
‘Sorry, dear. It was for the best. You weren’t able to get to the bathroom.’
‘Oh, God,’ I muttered, cringing, covering myself up, disgusted and ashamed, ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘You couldn’t help it and, anyway, I saw a lot worse when I was nursing. Don’t worry. Enjoy your breakfast.’ Handing me the tray, she left me to it.
I shrugged. What had happened had happened, and didn’t alter the fact that I was ravenous. She’d made scrambled eggs on toast and I wolfed them down at first, desperate to fill the emptiness. Only towards the end, the edge having been smoothed off my hunger, did I begin to appreciate their wonderful fragrance and fluffiness, though my taste buds didn’t seem quite up to scratch. Even the tea tasted odd, though I still gulped it down.
I’d just finished eating when she returned with the Bugle. ‘I brought you this. Would you like anything else, dear?’
‘Yes, please. Could I have some toast and marmalade?’
‘Of course. Would two slices do?’
‘Better make it four … and some more tea would be great. Thanks.’
The headline was intriguing.
‘Publican struck by lightning on battery charge.’
Underneath was a photograph of Featherlight Binks, wrestling with six police officers in front of the Feathers. I wasn’t surprised, knowing how often he’d been arrested before.
What confused me was seeing it was in Monday’s paper, which made no sense. The picnic had been on Friday evening, after which I’d walked home and gone to bed. It must, therefore, have been Saturday morning when I’d woken up feeling poorly, and now, somehow, it was Monday. Sunday had apparently come and gone without trace, which was weird, almost as if I’d been time travelling, skipping over a day of my life. Still, there was no point fretting. All I could do was to resume life where I’d rejoined it.
I forced myself to read the story. ‘Leonard Holdfast Binks,’ it said, ‘landlord of the Feathers public house, was arrested on Sunday lunchtime, following allegations of a serious assault. According to Mr William Shawcroft, an eyewitness, when officers informed Binks, widely known as Featherlight, that he was under arrest, he adopted an aggressive stance, letting slip a tirade of foul and abusive language before attempting to absent himself from the premises via the back door. He was arrested after a struggle during which six officers received minor yet spectacular injuries. According to Mr Shawcroft, Binks would probably have made good his escape had he not been under the weather, having been struck by lightning during Friday night’s storm. Binks, he reports, is frequently struck, possibly on account of a metal plate in his head. Mr Shawcroft stated that Binks, who has several previous convictions for violence and cooking, is normally at his most placid following a lightning strike and that his behaviour was out of character. As Binks was dragged into the back of a police van, he denied assaulting anyone over the weekend and threatened anyone who disagreed with him with “a good shoeing”.
‘The victim, an as yet unnamed businessman, remains in hospital, where a spokesman reports that he is critical but stable.’
I’d just finished the article when Mrs Goodfellow returned with the toast and marmalade and more tea.
‘I see Featherlight’s in trouble again,’ I remarked.
‘It seems so,’ she said, adjusting my pillows. ‘Yet the old fellow has his doubts.’
‘But, he injured six policemen,’ I said, pointing at the photo. ‘You can see what he did. There can’t be any doubt.’
‘He did that, but denies the original assault.’
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’
‘I doubt it. The old fellow reckons Mr Binks is honest. That is, though he may be involved in a multitude of nefarious schemes, he doesn’t actually tell lies. Of course, what he perceives as the truth might differ from how you or I might see it.’
I laughed. ‘You might be right, I’m sure he really believes he is a purveyor of fine ales and good food.’
‘That’s true, dear. Anyway, the old fellow believes him.’
‘I still don’t get it. If he didn’t attack the businessman, then who did?’
‘I have no idea, dear. Now, enjoy the rest of your breakfast and then you can tell me all about your picnic.’
After breakfast, while Mrs Goodfellow tidied up, I told my tale, though leaving out Felix’s threats and the werewolf. I was still trying to come to terms with it all. When I’d finished, fearing the worst, I asked whether Violet had been in touch.
‘No, I’m afraid not. I did wonder when she didn’t call, if you two had fallen out.’
‘I hope she’s alright,’ I said, a flock of worries fluttering round my stomach like frightened pigeons.
‘I expect she is, dear. Otherwise we’d have heard something. Her brother would have let you know, wouldn’t he?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, without feeling reassured. Still, I had an inkling that if anything really bad had happened, then Hobbes would have known and told the old girl. I still wasn’t happy but the feelings of panic took wing.
After a bath, I brushed my teeth, removing a triple dose of morning breath, and went back to bed for a couple of hours. Waking just before lunch, I was strong enough to hobble downstairs, where Mrs Goodfellow had prepared chicken soup especially for me, Hobbes and Dregs having gone out for the day. Though I’d guess it was up to standard, my taste buds were still numb, for which I blamed the antibiotics, hoping the effect was temporary.
‘The old fellow’s supposed to be having the afternoon off,’ said Mrs G, ‘but he said he’d better take a close look at Loop’s Farm.’
‘Loop’s Farm?’
‘That’s right, dear. The festival’s on next weekend and those cats still haven’t gone away – he says he nearly caught one on Saturday night. What’s more, he believes something else is on the prowl, though it seemed to intrigue him rather than worry him.’
I nodded, coming to a decision. ‘That’s interesting,’ I said, ‘because I think I saw something when I was walking home, something odd.’
‘Did you, dear?’
‘Yes, it was when the lightning flashed. I saw it and it scared me so much I ran away as fast as my legs could carry me, and further than I’d have thought possible.’
‘What did you see?’
Screwing up my eyes, I tried to pick out the image from a mess of memories. ‘It was about man-sized and shaped, not as big as Hobbes or Featherlight, but big enough and it was sort of standing upright, yet kind of hunched, and it looked like it had hair and eyes. And teeth.’
‘All the better to eat you with, dear.’
I laughed. ‘But the crazy thing is I’m sure it was wearing trousers.’
‘So you’re telling me you saw what looked like a man wearing trousers? Extraordinary!’
‘Yes,’ I said, feeling slightly foolish, ‘but it wasn’t a man, I’m certain.’
‘You haven’t been very well. Perhaps the fever made you imagine things.’
‘Maybe … but I don’t think so. I
don’t think I was ill then.’
On reflection, I didn’t believe I’d been hallucinating, remaining convinced something frightening had really been out there, something that was almost certainly a werewolf, though I didn’t want to admit it, not even to myself. Once upon a time, before Hobbes, I’d have found it impossible to believe the evidence of my eyes, but I’d learned that strange folk lived among us, strange folk that went unremarked for the most part.
Still lethargic and tired, it was all I could do to slump in front of the telly, watching a heart-warming made-for-TV movie about a woman’s brave fight for life and love after a horrific car crash left her with a collection of rather photogenic scars. Climaxing in a spurt of sickly sentimentality, it nearly turned my stomach, leaving me deep in melancholy.
Desperate for news of Violet, I could have kicked myself for not having thought to get her phone number, an obvious move, yet one that had never occurred to me, since she’d been the one to get in touch. I wondered if I’d been a little passive, whether some assertiveness would have been to my benefit, perhaps even impressing Felix. Realising that, if I’d shown any sign of being a man, I wouldn’t have been me, I spent some time wallowing in a mire of self-indulgent misery. Yet, eventually, I roused enough to call the hospital. The woman I spoke to refused to answer any questions about Violet on the grounds that the law forbade it, refusing to budge even after I’d told her what I thought of the law.
I moped, having run out of options. Though, in truth, I knew I hadn’t, I indulged my feelings of helplessness, unwilling to admit the most obvious course of action; I had Felix’s card and could phone him, if I dared. I fretted and dithered and, though it was a close call, my need to know won out in the end. Finding his card, dried out and creased, on the dressing table in my room, I took it to the phone and dialled the number.
‘Mr King’s office,’ said an efficient female voice. ‘Carol speaking. How may I help you?’
‘I umm … I’d like to talk to Felix.’
‘Mr King is out of the office. Can I take a message?’
‘Umm …’ I said, having failed to anticipate this contingency, ‘yes … or perhaps you can help me? I want to know how Violet King is.’
‘I’m afraid Miss King is off work. She was involved in a car accident.’
‘I know. I was with her. How is she?’
‘May I take your name, sir?’
‘Yes, it’s Caplet. Andy Caplet.’
‘I thought it might be; Mr King informed me of the possibility you would call. He said anyone with a modicum of decency would have followed her to the hospital.’
‘But I couldn’t …’
‘Mr King,’ Carol continued, ‘asked me to let you know that you are a self-centred, money-grubbing bastard.’
‘I’m not …’
‘And you are to leave his sister alone. Should you persist in importuning her, steps will be taken. That is all.’
‘But is she alright?’
‘That is all, Mr Caplet.’
‘But please, I must know how she is.’
‘You could have asked her yourself if you’d been bothered enough to visit her in hospital.’
‘But I was seriously ill.’
‘Were you?’ she asked, the faintest hint of feminine sympathy in her voice.
‘Yes … I’ve had a terrible fever and have only just risen from my sickbed,’ I said, laying it on a bit thick, making my voice sound weak and feeble.
It worked.
‘Alright, then,’ she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, ‘and don’t tell anyone I told you, but Miss King is fine now. She had a mild shock with a few minor cuts and bruises and is taking a break until she feels better.’
‘Thank you,’ I murmured, though I don’t know why I, too, felt the need to lower my voice. Things were going so well that I thought I’d push my luck. ‘Umm … I wonder if you could let me have her address? Or her phone number?’
‘Don’t push it,’ said Carol, ‘I’ve already said more than I should have.’
‘Please!’
‘Sorry.’ Her voice returned to normal. ‘Thank you for calling, sir. Goodbye.’ She put the phone down.
My first feeling was of relief that Violet was alright for, although, I’d had no reason to believe she wouldn’t be, it was a great weight off my mind to be certain. My second feeling was of outrage. How dare Felix try to order me around? How dare he tell his secretary to insult me? The third feeling was of slow, cold fear. What if Carol told Felix I’d called? The fourth feeling was more familiar: total bewilderment. I didn’t know what to do next.
As afternoon rolled into early evening, I caught myself laughing at children’s cartoons, feeling better the sillier they were, for they stopped me having to think. The early evening news put my problems into perspective, though other people’s tragedies didn’t make me feel any better about my own.
The front door bursting open, I was pounced on by Dregs who seemed delighted to see me downstairs and, though my battle to keep his tongue at a safe distance ended in an abject rout, his enthusiasm cheered me.
‘Good to see you up,’ said Hobbes, striding into the room, baring his great yellow teeth in a smile. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad. I’m ready for my supper, though.’
‘Me too,’ he said as he bounded upstairs to wash his hands.
At supper, I was, once again, a little disappointed at the lack of response from my taste buds, despite Mrs G having cooked a magnificent shepherd’s pie with Sunday’s leftover lamb. Still, it filled me up perfectly and I would have been a relatively contented Andy, had Hobbes not poured himself a goblet of wine and drunk it with such evident enjoyment. Mrs G wouldn’t allow me any alcohol while I was on antibiotics.
The wine reminding me of what Felix had said, I wondered if he’d regard me more favourably if I sorted something out for him.
‘Violet’s brother, Felix, asked me to ask you where you got your wine from.’
‘And you’ve asked me,’ said Hobbes with a chuckle. ‘Well done.’ He took another sip and sighed.
‘The thing is, Felix reckons it’s quality stuff and wants to buy some.’
‘He’s right about the quality, but he’ll not find it on sale anywhere.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s a gift.’
‘Who from?’ I asked, resentful that no one ever gave me valuable presents.
‘A friend.’
‘Oh, well, in that case, Felix wanted to know whether he might buy any off you. He said you could name your price.’
‘What price can you put on a gift from a friend?’ asked Hobbes.
That stumped me, though I knew what price you could put on a gift from a mother. It was £5.99 in the sale – she’d left the price tag on the jumper she’d given me for my birthday. ‘I don’t know but I reckon he’d pay … umm … a hundred pounds a bottle.’
‘As much as that?’ asked Hobbes, raising his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t he know he can pick up a drinkable wine from the supermarket for less than a tenner?’
‘I doubt he’d consider drinking anything in that price range.’
‘Why not?’
‘Umm … I think he regards himself as a connoisseur, liking only the really good stuff. That’s why he’s so interested in yours.’
I felt I was really in there, fighting for Felix, doing exactly what he wanted me to do, though I wouldn’t have been had I not wanted a chance with Violet. I still couldn’t accept it was any of Felix’s business what I did with his sister, as long as she wanted me. Of course, she hadn’t called me and I seemed to be losing any chance of getting the wine for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Hobbes firmly, ‘I can’t sell the wine, though, since he’s a friend of yours, he can have a crate as a gift.’
‘What? Really?’ I said, staggered by his generosity.
‘Of course.’ He drained his goblet. ‘If he’s a friend of yours, then he’s a friend of mine. Right, I’m of
f to bed. I’m getting too old for all these nights out on the tiles. Thanks, lass for a delicious supper.’ Yawning, he rose from the table and strode upstairs.
I sat back, feeling like a hypocrite, for, though I hadn’t actually said Felix was my friend, I’d let him think it. Worse, I didn’t care to think on my reason for helping Felix: getting him the wine in order to buy his favour, hoping he would then allow me to get off with his little sister. I didn’t feel at all good about myself, despite my intentions being, more or less, strictly honourable. The whole episode had acquired a sleazy taint.
Mrs Goodfellow, materialising at my elbow, nudged me, resulting in a vertical take-off. ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she said.
I landed back on my chair, shaking.
‘You were looking very thoughtful, dear.’
‘Yes … umm … I was just wondering where he gets his wine from.’
‘From an old friend,’ she said.
‘Yeah, but which old friend?’
‘It’s from the Count.’
‘His friend’s a Count?’
‘Yes, they met during the war, when the old fellow was able to do him a small service. They became friends and the Count sends him wine in gratitude.’
‘Which war?’
‘The Great one, dear. The First World War, you know?’
‘I know,’ I said, having seen the Victoria Cross in a tin in a drawer in his desk at the police station. Besides, Mrs Goodfellow had occasionally told me small details of his heroics, something he never spoke of. Though, somehow, I’d grown comfortable with the idea of his participation in a war a century ago, I was puzzled by his friend. ‘I suppose the Count must be pretty ancient then?’
‘I suppose he is, but he never forgets to send the wine.’
‘Felix said he’d drunk a similar wine that cost five hundred pounds a bottle and the Count must send crates of it every year.’
‘That’s right, except during the Second War, when transport was a problem. He always sends half a dozen crates of the ordinary and one of the good stuff.’
‘He must be very rich if he can afford to send all that, and generous.’
‘He is very wealthy. He has a chateau perched on a hill with magnificent views all along the river – you should see it – and he is generous to a fault. Mind you he wouldn’t have been either if it hadn’t been for the old fellow.’
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 22
