'Was he in the forces?'
Shutting the oven, she straightened up and faced me. 'He was a soldier, a decorated war hero, though he doesn't talk about it much. Now, I've got the vegetables and Yorkshire puds to see to.'
Hobbes a war hero? There was more to him than I'd supposed. His heavy footsteps clumped down the stairs and he reappeared in everyday apparel before I could ask any more.
'Let's leave the lass to get on with dinner,' he said, 'and I'll tell you what's happened at the museum.'
'Oh, yes. The break-in.' Following him through to the sitting room, I made myself comfortable on the sofa.
Hobbes rested his boots on the coffee table. 'Since it's just round the corner, I took a quick look while you were still snoring. It's rather a peculiar case. Someone dug a hole through the wall to get in.'
'It sounds like hard work. Why not just break a window or force a door?'
'The windows and doors have alarms fitted. Whoever got in must have known – though any visitor might have noticed.'
'Do you know who did it? Surely they've got CCTV?'
'They do, but only on what are regarded as valuable exhibits. None of them was taken, so nothing was recorded.'
'It sounds like something was taken.'
'Correct,' said Hobbes. 'The only item that appears to be missing is a bronze bracelet from the store, an interesting piece, according to Mr Biggs, the curator, though of no great value, worth a few hundred pounds at most.'
'Someone put in a lot of effort to steal a piece of no great worth. Why?'
He shrugged. 'I don't know yet. Mr Biggs says the bracelet is probably fifteenth century and of central European origin. The museum only received it a few weeks ago and he hadn't got round to classifying it. It's in the shape of a sleeping dragon, with its tail coiled around its neck. Unusual.'
'Whoever went to so much bother to nick it must be a nutter,' I said, scratching my head. 'One thing, though – wouldn't he have made a lot of noise digging through a wall? Did no one hear anything?'
Hobbes shook his head. 'Not so far as we know. There was a private party at the Blackdog Café last night and they were playing loud music.'
'Yeah,' I said, 'I heard. It had stopped when I went to the bathroom.'
'When was that?'
'I don't know. The middle of the night? It was dark and you weren't in your room.'
'I was out looking for the gentleman in the flowery shirt.'
'Did you find him?'
'Not yet.'
'Why were you after him?'
Hobbes grinned. 'I'd received information that he'd suddenly come into money and wanted to ask him about it.'
'Did Billy tell you? Is that why you paid him?'
Hobbes nodded. 'Billy is a valuable ally in the fight against crime, and the man we were after, he's called Tony Derrick, has never done an honest day's work in his life, yet has suddenly acquired a wallet full of cash.'
'Tony Derrick, eh? It sounds like you know him.'
'Yes, he's lived around here for most of his life and was involved in Billy's kidnapping, which is why Billy has issues with him, and why Tony wasn't pleased to see me again.'
I was indignant. 'You said the kidnapping nearly became a murder. If the bastard tried to kill Billy, how come he's not in prison?'
'Tony wasn't going to kill him. He might be a loathsome, sneaking rotter, but he's not a killer, just an opportunist. If he sees a chance, he'll steal. Billy was blind drunk and Tony robbed him. That would normally have been as far as it went had someone not made it clear that she was willing to pay good money for someone like Billy.'
'He sold him? That's outrageous, yet who would want to buy him? And why?'
'Dinner's ready.' Mrs Goodfellow was just behind my right ear.
I leaped up, twisting in mid-air, landing and facing her, wishing she'd stop doing it.
'You're keen, dear, I can see you're hungry.' She turned to Hobbes. 'Did you see how fast the young fellow was?'
Hobbes chuckled as he stood up. 'He's fast enough on his feet where vittles are concerned, yet maybe not so nippy when chasing villains, eh, Andy?'
I made a weak attempt at a laugh while he told her about my misadventure with the supermarket trolley. Her reedy cackle joined his deep guffaws. Entering the kitchen, I was feeling more than usually ridiculous. But no one would laugh when my book came out. I would edit out the unflattering parts, make myself the hero. I would be cool, debonair, successful and people would respect me.
Still, I forgave their laughter when Mrs Goodfellow served lunch, a sirloin of beef, cooked to a succulent, tender perfection, fiery horse-radish to die for (or of, perhaps, if you were reckless with your helpings), crispy roast-potatoes and parsnips, and the most gorgeous, lightest, tastiest Yorkshire puddings in the whole world. Her gravy was the most delicious ever made, without even a hint of Bisto, and even the cabbage tasted special. She was an expert and I'd never before been presented with such a meal. For afters, she served the best rice pudding in the universe, one for which you would not blame little green men from Mars for invading merely in order to sample a spoonful. Nothing was quirky or exotic, everything was just superb and my palate, more used to dodgy pub grub and takeaways, went into overload. I couldn't talk, even if I'd wanted to, while the meal lasted, lost in my own little ecstasy. Only when I'd finished did I realise she was no longer with us, and that I'd never yet seen her eat anything. I sat back in my chair with a feeling of enormous well-being.
'Coffee?' She'd done it again.
'Yes, please,' said Hobbes. 'Thank you for dinner, lass.'
I nodded, too shocked to speak. She smiled, bustling around, as Hobbes took me back to the sitting room and resumed talking, as if there'd been no interruption.
'Strange individuals find their way to Sorenchester,' he said.
I looked at him and agreed.
'And strange events happen. Billy was caught up in one with a very weird individual until I put a stop to it. A clue pointed to Tony's involvement and, after I'd nabbed him, he made some amends by providing vital information. After I'd persuaded him, of course. I can be very persuasive.'
'Umm … why didn't he go to prison? And who was the weird individual? And—'
'One at a time, Andy,' said Hobbes with a smile. 'Firstly, Tony did not go to prison because he was never charged. Any evidence was burned in the rescue. However, shortly after our little chat, Tony enrolled in a monastery. I hoped he'd go straight but it was a forlorn hope; Tony will always be what he is. It's not all his fault, he had a difficult childhood, but he's always been one to make the worst of things. At least in the monastery he was delivered from temptation for a short time. I didn't know he'd come back, though Billy says he reappeared about a month ago. He was broke then.'
'Tony broke, you could say,' I smirked.
Hobbes nodded. 'Yet, in the last few days, he's been flashing handfuls of cash around and I don't believe he's got himself a proper job.'
'I'm sure I've seen him around town before,' I said slowly. 'I thought so in the pub and I'm surer now. What's more I think I saw him again last night.'
Hobbes shrugged. 'Of course you did. We were chasing him.'
'Yeah, I know. It was when I was lying on the pavement.' I paused. I'd be dropping Phil in it, right up to his silk-collared neck. Could I do such a thing to a former colleague? Of course I could. 'One of the cars that went by,' I said, 'belonged to Phil from the Bugle and I'm pretty certain Tony was in the passenger seat.'
'Really?' Hobbes raised his eyebrows. 'Then I'd better have a word with this Phil some time. Do you know his surname and where he lives?'
He nearly had me there. I'd grown so accustomed to thinking of him as 'Bloody Phil' or 'Phil the Git' that it took me a few moments to remember. 'It's Waring. I don't know his address, though they'll have it at the Bugle.'
'Thanks. Your information might prove useful.'
Gotcha you smug git! I thought. Maybe Ingrid would now see him for what he was. I just
hoped I'd be there when Hobbes had his word with him. It might be entertaining.
'Here are your coffees,' said Mrs Goodfellow in my ear. She placed the tray on the table before us.
Hobbes laughed and took a great slurp from his mug. I poured a drop of milk into mine, took a sip and gasped.
He poured himself a second mug from the huge cafetiere. 'Mind, it's hot.'
It certainly was; the tip of my tongue was par-boiled and tender and it was a few minutes before I risked another sip, by which time he was well down his third mug. When mine was cool enough to enjoy without agony, he was becoming twitchy and tense. Though I had a few moments of horror in case he was going to do the bone thing again, all he wanted was to get out and take another look at the museum. Having nothing better to do, I drained my mug and went with him.
The biting wind of the previous day had lost its teeth and grown gentle under a pale sun. It only took us five minutes to walk down Blackdog Street, turn right up Ride Street, past the Blackdog Café, and reach the museum, which was just opening its iron gates for the afternoon. A small group of visitors started moving inside and we joined them, passing beneath a genuine Roman arch into the foyer. I expected Hobbes to push past the tourists, yet he seemed content to wait his turn. When he showed his ID, the woman behind the desk nodded and waved him through with a smile. All she could see was the reassuring presence of a policeman. And me. All I warranted was a suspicious glance.
'It's alright,' Hobbes explained. 'He's with me.'
She smiled at him and let me in. I admit to feeling disgruntled. Surely, in my tweed suit and tie, I looked most respectable? More respectable than he did in his flappy old gabardine coat.
'C'mon Andy,' he beckoned. 'This way.'
We walked through a hall filled with Roman antiquities and, though I'm not much of a history student, I wished I could have stayed for a proper look. For some reason, I'd never visited before, which, seeing all the wonderful things on display, struck me as foolish. A bit of history would undoubtedly have been healthier than spending so long in pubs, especially in the Feathers. The thought of the cat in the stew pot turned my stomach. What had ever possessed me to eat there? I knew what Featherlight was like.
Hobbes, pushing open a door marked 'private', loped down a short corridor into a storeroom, filled from floor to ceiling with loaded shelves and boxes, apart from the space by the window, where a worried little man sat at a desk, leafing through papers.
He looked up, forcing a smile. 'Good afternoon, Inspector. Any developments?'
'Not yet, sir.'
Hobbes introduced me to the curator, Mr Biggs. An ironic name I thought, shaking his podgy hand, for Mr Biggs was small. Everything about him was small, except for spectacles that made his pale blue eyes goggle like a goldfish's. He must have been getting on for two feet taller than Billy Shawcroft, yet Billy was larger than life and seemed to occupy more than his own small volume. The curator, by contrast, looked like he'd collapsed into himself and his thin, white hair was dishevelled.
'A terrible thing, Inspector,' he said. 'No one's ever broken into my museum before. Dreadful times we live in.'
'Indeed, sir.' Hobbes nodded. 'However, don't despair. We may be able to trace the thief and recover the item.'
Mr Biggs snorted, shaking his head.
'Now,' said Hobbes, 'I need to look into the hole.'
He walked along an aisle, lined on both sides with plain cardboard boxes that, no doubt, concealed a host of wonders. A cold draught blew around my ankles, a mess of rubble littered the beige carpet. There was, as he'd said, a hole in the wall.
'Stand back and don't touch anything,' he commanded.
I nodded, already used to the routine. Squatting on his haunches, he began moving slowly and deliberately forward over the rubble towards the wall, shifting his feet so as to leave no marks. On reaching the wall, he crouched and poked his head into the hole. He began humming his 'Ribena Wild' song again.
'I went to an ale house I used to frequent,' he murmured, reaching out for something. When he straightened up he held a sticky-looking, grey-brown tuft of fibre between his nails. He sniffed it, his nose wrinkling.
'What is it?'
'Fluff from a carpet, a pub carpet and I'd stake my reputation it's from the Feathers.'
'Do you think Featherlight robbed the place?'
'I doubt it,' said Hobbes, pointing at the hole, 'and there's no chance he could squeeze through that.'
'Billy could.'
He shook his head. 'Billy has his faults but he's one hundred per cent honest, except, possibly, when he plays cards. Not that I've ever caught him out.' He paused, 'No, I suspect someone else who's been at the Feathers.'
'Tony Derrick then?'
He shrugged. 'Could be. He's skinny enough to squeeze through. Unfortunately, uniform tramped around in here before I got a proper look. Those lads have big feet, though they do their best.' He stopped and thought for a moment. 'The only thing is, it doesn't feel right. Tony's a nasty little sneak thief, an opportunist, and this took time, planning and knowledge. I can't see him doing this. Unless …'
'Unless what?'
'Unless, he's working for someone again.' His forehead furrowed in thought and he muttered something under his breath. I didn't catch it all and had to try filling in the gaps. I think he said, though I couldn't swear to it, 'You'd have thought he'd have had enough after the old witch.'
'Excuse me?'
'Just thinking out loud,' said Hobbes. 'No, I'm sure, if Tony Derrick was involved, he didn't plan it. Someone else did.'
A happy thought came into my mind. 'Phil?'
'Possibly.' He grinned. 'Unfortunately, apart from being in a car with Tony, there's no evidence against him. I will talk to him, though he's not high on my suspect list. Just because you don't like him, Andy, it doesn't mean he's a criminal.'
'Oh,' I said, surprised by his perspicacity, 'I suppose that might be true. He is a git, though!'
'Mrs Tomkins didn't think so and Ingrid likes him.'
I glowered. 'Only because he's a smooth-talking, flash git.'
'And you're jealous?' He raised his eyebrows.
'Of course not.' Though part of me I tried to ignore agreed Hobbes had a point, I wouldn't admit it. 'There's nothing to be jealous of.'
His eyebrows twitched, making me think of a pair of bristly caterpillars wrestling. 'So you don't mind him going out with Ingrid?'
'No. Well, yes, I do. Umm … it's up to her.'
He walked back to the desk. 'From where was the bracelet taken, sir?'
'I'll show you.' Mr Biggs stood up. With his fluffy white hair, it was like watching a tuft of thistledown wafting in a breeze. He was obviously still in some distress and drifted up and down the aisle until he found the right box. He tapped it with a brittle finger. 'From here, Inspector.'
Hobbes leaned forward, sniffing the outside of the box, a box identical to the hundreds of others in the storeroom.
'Were any of the others touched?' he asked.
Mr Biggs shook his head. 'No. At least, it doesn't appear so.'
'So, what drew your attention to this one?'
Mr Biggs looked puzzled. 'What do you mean? The bracelet was missing that's all.'
Hobbes, frowning, glanced along the rows of boxes. 'How did you know something was taken from this particular one? Did you check all of them?'
It sounded like a good point to me.
Mr Biggs's face, which had been as pale and lumpy as uncooked pastry, reddened. 'What are you trying to say? Are you accusing me of something?'
'No,' said Hobbes mildly. 'Is there something I should be accusing you of? I was merely trying to establish a fact. How did you know something had been taken from this particular box?'
'This is outrageous.' Mr Biggs was getting himself into a strop. His little feet stamping on the ground, he puffed out his chest like a robin. 'I shall have a strong word with your superiors, Inspector. I don't expect to be treated like a criminal in my own
museum. Now get out!'
Hobbes scowled, leaning ever so slightly towards him, looming like an elephant's foot over an anthill. 'I am investigating a crime. Please answer my questions, sir.'
Mr Biggs's bluster collapsed. 'Don't hurt me!'
'I never intend to hurt anyone.' Hobbes's smile held all the friendliness of a hyena.
Though he hadn't done or said anything threatening, I felt the intimidation like an approaching storm at sea. Mr Biggs's eyes goggled behind his spectacles, his jaw moved up and down wordlessly and he staggered as if he'd been punched.
Hobbes helped him to his chair. 'Now, sir,' he asked, his voice gentle, 'how did you know something had been taken from this box?'
'I didn't know.' Biggs's voice grew shrill. 'I just suspected something when I saw the hole.' His breathing had become heavy and runnels of sweat streaked his face.
'What did you suspect?'
'That the bracelet had gone. It's an unusual piece. I don't mean the workmanship or the materials. They are not exceptional. It's the design.'
'Go on,' said Hobbes.
'The … er … Order of St George used the symbol of a dragon with the tail coiled round its neck in the fifteenth century. It is rare to come across them nowadays: unique, I believe, in Sorenchester. Though they have little intrinsic value, they are worth a great deal to collectors interested in the Order.'
'What is the Order of St George?' I asked, too intrigued to keep shtum.
'All in good time, Andy,' said Hobbes, raising his hand. He turned to Mr Biggs, 'How did you know it had gone missing, sir?'
'I saw the hole and guessed it had been stolen.'
Hobbes persisted. 'Why?'
'I don't know. It was a guess.'
Hobbes stared at Biggs who squirmed and twisted like a worm caught in the mid-day sun. 'What made you think the thief would bypass all the other boxes and go straight for this one?'
It was obvious even to me that Biggs was hiding something, yet the man looked so deflated and shrivelled I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. He was gulping like a fish, his face pale again, with an unhealthy sheen like on a lump of putty and the thought occurred that he was going to pass out, just as he passed out. His eyes rolling, his mouth dropping open, he clattered from his chair with all the elegance of a sack of potatoes.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 11
