‘Drink it all up,’ she said. ‘It’ll help you sleep.’
While I sipped, she went to her room for a hammer and nails and made the window secure. Though I was convinced Violet and Felix had gone forever, that it was unnecessary, it did make me feel safer to know he couldn’t get in, even though I’d still have welcomed her. If only, I thought, I could have got her away from his malign influence, I could have loved her. I smiled, feeling a little better, wondering if I might be able to tame the wildcat. Though it was a silly thought, it made me giggle. The cocoa had an aromatic aftertaste.
‘You put something in this, didn’t you?’
‘A little something to make you feel better. You’ll sleep well.’
‘I am feeling a little woozy.’
Waking to sunlight pouring into my room, I enjoyed a few moments of comfortable, hazy dozing until memories of the night’s events dropped back into my mind like junk mail, filling it with confusion and a sense of utter loss. I made a decision to lie where I was forever, to refuse all sustenance and comfort, to allow my life to quietly slip away. It seemed the best course or, at least, the one with the least pain. Of course, my death might result in a small amount of grief for a few: Hobbes and the old girl, Billy, maybe, my parents, possibly. As I imagined their tears at my funeral, I hoped that maybe, just maybe, a mysterious, elegant woman, dressed all in black, would linger and drop a single flower on my grave.
I indulged this fantasy until a whiff of frying bacon put things in perspective, persuading me not to pine away.
A quick inventory suggested my injuries were getting better: my lip, though still sore, had shrunk to almost normal proportions, my bruises weren’t quite so tender, and the scratches I could see looked clean and well on their way to healing. Getting up, I washed, dressed and made my way down to breakfast, finding Mrs Goodfellow alone with a frying pan. Dregs had been shut out. Occasionally, his head would bounce up at the window.
‘Good morning, dear.’
After the usual enquiries, she fed me bacon and eggs, delicious, despite the lingering numbing effect of antibiotics. I felt surprisingly well, and even better after topping up with toast and marmalade.
‘Where’s Hobbes?’ I asked, pushing my plate aside.
‘He’s still out hunting. It’s not like him to miss his breakfast.’
‘That’s true. Do you think he’s caught them?’
‘I’m sure he’d be back if he had.’
I half hoped he had caught them; that is, I hoped he’d caught Felix and slung him in a cell, or a cage. At that moment, Hobbes, looking dishevelled and filthy, walked in, without saying a word, slouched across to the sink, picked up the washing up bowl and poured in a full box of Sugar Puffs and two pints of milk, before putting it on the table. Not bothering with a spoon, he simply shovelled the mess into his mouth with his hands, hands criss-crossed by deep cuts. Finishing the last Sugar Puff, lifting the bowl to his mouth, he poured the remaining milk down his throat.
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Is there any tea, lass?’
The old girl handed him a steaming mugful, which he drank in one gulp. She refilled it and he repeated the procedure.
‘Thank you. It’s been a long night.’
‘Did you catch them?’ I asked, desperate to know about Violet.
‘No.’
‘So, why are you all scratched?’
‘Oh, that,’ he said with a glance at his hands. ‘There was a fire at the Feathers, which I suspect was arson carried out by Mr King or his sister, possibly in revenge, or to keep me occupied and out the way. Whatever the reason, I had to abandon the hunt, break in to the Feathers and extinguish the blaze, finding, unfortunately, that Featherlight had just installed razor wire around every possible entrance. I had to tear it up to get in and it was lucky for Billy that I did; he was fast asleep behind the bar and drunk.’
‘He must have been relieved when you turned up,’ I said, memories of my terror and despair, when I’d burned down my flat and been pulled out by Hobbes, returning.
‘He will be, when he sobers up.’
‘Did you put the fire out?’
‘Yes, though I had to shake up a couple of beer kegs and punch holes in them, since all the fire-extinguishers were empty.’
‘Featherlight should be prosecuted for that,’ I said, virtuously.
‘No one was hurt.’
‘Umm … apart from you, no one was hurt, and Billy could have been killed.’
‘Yet, I’m fine and so is Billy, so why add to Featherlight’s problems?’
‘Fair enough. Umm … is he still banged up?’
‘No, the murder charge was dropped, due, in no small part, to your evidence, and he’s been released, which is just as well as we needed all the cells for Mr King’s boys. Most of them, I’m glad to say, are inclined to talk, and their boss will be in a heap of trouble if we catch him. So, I’m afraid, will Miss King.’
‘She only did it because he made her.’
Hobbes shook his head. ‘Sorry, Andy, that might have been true once, but she had no cause to attack Mr Bullimore.’
‘But she stopped attacking him to save me. That’s got to be worth something.’
‘I’m glad she did and, though there’s obviously a better side to her, she murdered Henry Bishop.’
‘No,’ I said angered at the accusation, ‘that’s ridiculous. I was with her. She didn’t do it.’
‘I believe she killed Henry when he went into the restaurant.’
‘But surely it was Felix who attacked him. She was having a meal with me.’
‘True, but dead men don’t open doors. Henry was still alive, badly wounded admittedly, but alive when he got through the door. Who was the first to react?’
‘Violet: and she tried to save him.’
‘That’s what it must have looked like. You said the first thing she did was check his pulse?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That, I fear, was her cover for tearing his carotid artery, thus killing him instantly.’
Putting my head in my hands, I tried to think back. Henry had certainly been alive when he’d fallen at my feet, and Violet knelt beside him. I remembered her hand, such a pretty little hand, reaching out to his neck, my feeling of nausea as he haemorrhaged over that same hand. Could it have been as Hobbes was suggesting? I had to admit it; it could.
‘If she did do it, she was trying to protect Felix,’ I said, as if that excused her.
‘I’m sure she was, though I have little doubt she administered the coup de grace after Mr King did the initial damage. Henry’s sudden demise struck me as odd at the time, but I was led astray, taking her at face value.’
Mrs G, chuckling, poked him in the ribs with a bony finger. ‘You always do where young ladies are concerned.’
Hobbes smiled and returned to his serious look. ‘I’m also convinced Miss King murdered Mike Rook. I picked up a trace of her perfume in the room, though, unfortunately, since it was very faint and masked by all the hospital smells, I didn’t recognise it until much later. Mr King was undoubtedly responsible for the initial attack, trying to ensure Mr Rook wouldn’t speak to me. Since Mr Rook was a tough lad and showing signs of recovery, he arranged for his sister to finish the job.’
‘But,’ I said, unwilling to give her up without a struggle, ‘she can’t be a killer, she’s too timid and gentle. What about when the werewolf frightened her at the arboretum? If she was like you say, wouldn’t she have attacked it?’
‘I suspect,’ said Hobbes, ‘it wasn’t Les Bashem who frightened her. Even in werewolf form he offered no threat. He was merely keeping an eye on you two.’
‘What then?’
‘She was more concerned about her own reaction. Her instinct would be to transmogrify and attack. Yet, since you were there, she couldn’t, because you wouldn’t have been favourably impressed had she changed into a cat before your eyes. She didn’t want to lose you.’
‘But why not? I’m nothing specia
l.’
‘True … but you must have been something to her. I can’t, for the life of me, understand why. Can you?’ He turned to Mrs G.
‘No. Not at all, though he does have excellent teeth.’
I was somewhat deflated by their opinions. Yet, when I looked up they were both grinning.
‘Cheer up,’ said Hobbes. ‘You’re not so bad, really.’
He raised a hand and, though I cringed, he patted me quite gently and I didn’t cry out.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Don’t mention it. I’m off for a nap before lunch.’ Standing up, he belched. ‘Pardon me; it’s all the puff in the Sugar Puffs.’
‘Before you go,’ I said, as a thought occurred, ‘what happened to Arthur Crud?’
‘Mr Crud? The poor chap was maliciously accused. He’s a gentle, bumbling, young fellow, not unlike you. Though the evidence I uncovered totally exonerated him and he was found not guilty, I had to hide him when someone, Mr King I now believe, whipped up bad feeling because he’d taken his sister to lunch on a couple of occasions. Mr Crud is living safely in Cornwall for the time being.’
‘Did you know the girl who accused him worked for Felix?’
‘I did, though she was only a temporary assistant at his London office. At the time it didn’t seem important.’
‘Did Felix force her to accuse Arthur?’
‘Possibly, but it’s more likely he paid her. Apparently, she went missing a couple of weeks afterwards. The London boys couldn’t find her and I fear Mr King disposed of a potentially dangerous witness. Right, I’m off.’ Yawning, he stamped upstairs.
There were a couple of hours before lunch, which the old girl was just starting. It was going to involve chicken pieces. She could do wonderful things with chicken pieces, though why she was attacking them with a mallet was beyond me.
‘I think I’ll take the dog out,’ I shouted over the thumping.
‘Righto, dear. It’s a lovely day. Enjoy yourself, if you’re well enough.’
‘I’m OK, I’ll not go far.’
When I left the house, it felt great to be in the sun again, despite a fierce wind whipping up stinging dust from the dry streets. I was glad to reach the soft greenery of Ride Park. As I let Dregs off his lead, he ran free with a joyous bark and I wished I could enjoy such simple pleasures. Though I’d never expected my relationship with Violet to last, I had hoped.
Dregs, ran back with a long stick, dropped it at my feet and bounced and barked until I threw it, while I struggled to understand my feelings, for even after everything I’d learned about her, I was going to miss her. Though she might have been a murderer, she’d been good to me, and I still couldn’t really believe that a woman so sweet and lovely had liked me, maybe even loved me. It was just my luck her turning out to be a cat.
Still, on reflection, I had always been a little afraid of her and, though it had never been the debilitating terror Felix had caused, it had been more even than my normal nervousness in the presence of an attractive woman. I couldn’t help myself: I wanted her back, even if she was going to maul me.
As Dregs rushed back towards me, a harsh voice yelled.
‘Oi, Caplet!’
Seemingly distracted, Dregs forgot to stop and his stick rapped my shins, making me hop and mutter. Someone laughed.
I turned to see Featherlight, standing on the edge of the woods, a can of beer in his hand.
‘You make me laugh, you do.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. Now, when you see your mate Hobbes, tell him I said thanks for rescuing Billy and for putting the fire out and getting me out of the nick. And tell him he owes me for the two kegs of lager he used for putting out the fire.’
‘What?’ I said, outraged, ‘that’s not fair.’
‘You tell him,’ he said, displaying his horrible, big, yellow teeth in a grin, ‘he’ll understand.’ He lumbered away, chuckling, a ring of pale flab flowing from beneath his vest, like a part-inflated rubber ring.
I guessed he’d been joking, though his usual attempts at humour involved pain and humiliation for whichever poor customer he’d picked on. I had, on several occasions, been that customer.
When Dregs was limp and panting, we returned home to find Hobbes was up, washed, groomed and back to normal. I passed on Featherlight’s remarks.
He snorted. ‘He was in a good mood, I suppose.’
‘Well, you did get him off a murder charge, rescued his barman, stopped the Feathers burning down, and got rid of the crook who was trying to force him from his home.’
‘I was only doing my job. Now, let’s enjoy lunch.’
After he said grace, Mrs Goodfellow served a fantastic gazpacho, a real gazpacho, so very different from my disaster. I could hardly believe only three weeks had passed since then; life with Hobbes moved at a hectic pace.
‘Would you like a bottle of wine?’ asked Mrs G, as we were savouring the soup.
‘Good idea,’ said Hobbes. ‘I intend to take it easy this afternoon.’
‘Excellent,’ said I.
‘Sorry, dear,’ she said, heading towards the cellar, ‘you can’t have any until Doctor Procter says so.’
She returned, holding two bottles, tutting. ‘I really must clean down there. There’s coal dust all over these.’
Having wiped them with a damp cloth, she opened one and poured it into a glass big enough for an adequate goldfish bowl. Placing it in front of Hobbes, she served the main course.
‘What is it?’ I asked, salivating. ‘It smells fantastic. Is it Chinese?’
‘That’s right, dear, bang bang chicken.’
‘I didn’t know you could make Chinese food.’
‘I do sometimes. I nursed there once.’
‘When?’
‘When I was a nurse.’
‘Right … anyway … umm … it looks great.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
It was, as I expected, excellent, aromatic, savoury, piquant and served with a refreshing simple salad, just perfect for a hot afternoon. Though, as usual, we ate in silent homage to the old girl’s genius, unusually, not all of my attention was focussed onto the meal, part of it still being with Violet. I kept going back to her words about Felix having done what had to be done and, though I’d assumed she’d been referring to his business dealings, I wondered if there was more to them.
The old girl’s remark about the coal dust on the bottle puzzled me for she normally kept the cellar as spotless as a surgery. Hobbes, raising his glass, sniffed the contents, making me realise how much I would have enjoyed a glass or two. I tried to concentrate on the bang bang chicken, thinking it was a funny name for a dish, though appropriate, considering the bashing she’d given it. It made me think about the banging I’d heard before Violet turned up.
Hobbes, opening his lips, tilted the glass, my own taste buds anticipating his pleasure.
My next move surprised both of us. Leaping up, my chair falling, clattering, to the ground, I shoved the glass from his hands, the wine splashing over us, the glass shattering onto the kitchen floor. He stared at me, then at his stained shirt front and then at the stem of the glass, still in his great fist.
‘Have you recently joined the Temperance Movement?’ he asked.
‘No … I think … umm … that is … the wine might be poisoned.’
‘No!’ He roared.
I cringed, expecting storm-force anger, but the shout was directed at the dog, who was licking at the spillage. Dregs backed away, assuming his martyred look.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘I don’t know. It might be.’
‘It never has been before.’
‘No, but I think … umm … Felix broke into the cellar last night. Someone was banging and I think it was him knocking the door in, because Mrs Goodfellow says there’s dust down there and there shouldn’t be any. I reckon he’s poisoned the wine. Violet said he’d done what had to be done and I think she meant getting you out the way.’
>
‘It smelt alright,’ he said, dipping his finger in the mess and touching his tongue, ‘and it doesn’t taste as if anything’s wrong with it.’
‘Perhaps he used an odourless, colourless, tasteless poison.’
‘Ah yes, one unknown to medical science. There are a lot of them about.’
‘Are there?’
‘No. Anyway, Dregs seems fine.’
Dregs, wagging his tail on hearing his name, was not the sort to hold a grudge.
‘But Felix,’ I said, ‘might have poisoned some other bottles.’
‘Let’s take a look.’
Hobbes and I went down the steps. When Dregs stopped at the top, refusing to come any further, I gave Hobbes a significant look that he ignored. On first glance, nothing seemed wrong. However, as we passed the wine racks, we could see the tunnel door’s lock had been smashed, a sledgehammer had been discarded in the corner, and the coal pile had been shoved aside. I had no doubt who was responsible. Hobbes, growling, looked around. The wine appeared untouched, except for several bottles of the best stuff having disappeared.
He was totting up how many, when we discovered the bomb.
Sniffing at it, pointing to the electronic counter wired to a number of off-brown sticks, he looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose that shows how long we’ve got before it goes off.’
‘Umm …’ I replied, hypnotised by the flashing digits, ‘I guess so. Is it counting in minutes or seconds?’
‘Seconds by the looks of it.’
‘So we’ve got thirty seconds. What are you going to do?’
‘Twenty-five seconds now. Let me think.’
‘OK.’ Oddly, I felt quite calm.
It read twenty seconds when, grabbing the bomb, tucking it under his arm like a rugby ball, he charged across the cellar, and plunged down the steps into the tunnels.
Time seemed almost to slow down, though I was horribly aware it was running out far too fast. I hesitated, torn between wanting to help Hobbes, realising I couldn’t, wondering whether I should make an attempt to get Mrs G and Dregs out of the house, though there was no time, and an urge to save myself.
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 34
