'I am asking you. Where is he? What's happened to him?'
'I don't know. Honest.' Tony's face had taken on a greenish hue and he looked as if he might be sick.
I wouldn't have blamed him; I was shaking and sweating, even though it wasn't me on the heavy, knobbly end of Hobbes's cudgel stare.
'You can do better than that.' Hobbes was as unblinking as a cobra.
'I can't.' Tony shook his head as if he hoped his neck would break. 'She told me …' His eyes were wild and scared. 'I can't say.'
'Tell me who she is? Does she know where Mr Waring is?'
The room became very quiet. I was holding my breath and you might have heard the proverbial pin drop if it hadn't been for the slither of Tony falling from his chair and the dull, soggy thump as his body hit the floor. He lay still.
'He's scared of someone,' said Hobbes.
I nodded. He wasn't the only one.
Hobbes stood up, poking the inert body once or twice without response, waving a sharp-nailed finger close to Tony's throat. 'His heart's beating and he's still breathing. He's just fainted I expect. Such a pity. I was enjoying our little chat.'
'Who do you think he could mean by she?' I asked.
He paused thoughtfully. 'I don't know. Last time there was a she in his life, apart from those unfortunate nuns, it was the wicked old witch who wanted Billy's blood. We believe she died in the inferno when I was getting Billy out, although there was no trace of her afterwards.'
'What did she want his blood for?' I asked, appalled.
'We never found out for sure, though Billy reckoned he'd heard her muttering about a blood-bath.'
'A blood-bath?'
Hobbes nodded. 'She had some crazy notion it would make her young again. I've never heard of it working, though, and it's more orthodox to use a child's blood. I'm pretty certain it wouldn't have worked using dwarf blood.'
My mind struggled to compute the data. 'When you said 'the wicked old witch', I thought you just meant a nasty woman. Are you telling me she was a real witch?'
'No, I'm not telling you. I've already told you.'
'So, let's get this straight. There are witches in Sorenchester?'
'Not anymore,' he said, 'unless she resurrected herself.'
'This is too much. Witches aren't real … are they?'
'Oh, they're real enough, they are just rare – they should be treated as an endangered species, the genuine wicked ones that is, not the harmless ladies and gentlemen who enjoy prancing around in their birthday suits; there's a few of them still around and you should see Hedbury Common at mid-summer. It's an eye opener and no mistake.'
I shook my head, struggling to make sense of the world. It was no use.
Hobbes stood with one foot on Tony's chest, like a big-game hunter with a trophy. 'I can't believe,' he said, 'that the old witch is behind this. I know we found no trace of her body, but the fire was intense. Foolishly, she'd built her house from gingerbread. It defies all logic and it's incredibly inflammable when mixed with brandy. It's a wonder she obtained planning permission.'
I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye. Perhaps he was winding me up, or perhaps not. I was becoming more and more inclined to believe the previously unbelievable. Maybe I was gullible, yet I had seen and heard things I would have considered incredible before meeting him. I realised, of course, that he made jokes at my expense but I think, in part, he was using them to prepare me for the weirdness of the world he inhabited. There were strange parallel lives being lived all around us, if only we knew where and how to look. Yet, humans have proved themselves adept at ignoring whatever does not fit with their simplistic views of the way things ought to be. Or rather, humans have proved ourselves adept at ignoring whatever does not fit with our simplistic views. Hobbes was getting to me; I hoped unhumanity wasn't catching.
'Right,' said Hobbes. 'I suppose, we'd better drop Tony off in a cell until he feels better.' Slinging the limp body over his shoulder, turning towards the door, he strolled to the cells.
The desk sergeant glanced up as we approached. 'Morning, sir. Another one fainted? Drop him in number two and I'll keep an eye on him.'
'Thanks, Bert,' said Hobbes. 'Right, Andy, since we won't get any more out of him for a while, I propose having a word with Augustus Godley.'
'Who's Augustus Godley?' My mind was blank.
'Do keep up. He's the old churchwarden. He lives only a couple of minutes away.'
'Oh, yes, I remember. The one who knows everything about the church. Umm … will he know anything about Phil?'
Hobbes shrugged. 'I doubt it. However, he does make a really good cup of tea and he's generous with the biscuits. Now walk this way.' He turned towards the door.
If I'd tried to walk that way I'd have done myself a mischief, so I contented myself with my usual scurry, interspersed with bursts of jogging. Leaving the station, turning through an alley into the bottom of Vermin Street, we crossed into Moorend Road, where a row of impossibly cute alms-houses stood. Hobbes held open the gate, ushering me onto the garden path of the first house. Four steps took us to the diminutive stone porch, blotched and camouflaged with decades of lichen and moss. Hobbes rang the bell and we waited. And waited. He rang again.
'There's no one in,' I said after about a minute.
'He's coming. Just be patient.'
He was right. A few seconds later I could hear a shuffling sound and the door creaked open.
'Hello?' A face, crinkled as a pickled chestnut and a similar colour, surrounded by a fuzz of white whiskers and eyebrows, poked out. 'Hello?' he said again, peering at us through alert blue eyes. 'Why, it's PC Hobbes.' He grinned, revealing a mouth as free of teeth as his skin was free of smoothness. Every line on his face was wrinkled, every fold was furrowed. 'I should say Inspector Hobbes. Come in, my dear fellow, and bring the boy with you.'
I glanced over my shoulder before realising he meant me. Hobbes introduced us and I trundled after them down a gloomy stone-paved corridor that was even gloomier when I'd pulled the door behind us. Though the house smelled musty and dusty, Augustus was smartly dressed in a black suit, as if he was off to a funeral. After a minute or two, and all of ten steps, he led us into a small room in which a coal fire glowed like a small volcano. A blue budgie in a cage by the window greeted us with a chirrup as the old man waved us towards a couple of faded velvet armchairs.
'I was just going to make a cup of tea,' said Augustus. 'Would you care to join me?
'Yes please,' said Hobbes, while I nodded hopefully.
As the old man shuffled off to the kitchen, I wondered how long he'd take, realising how parched I'd become. I'd hardly drunk anything at the station; my concoction had been too disgusting and I'd been too enthralled and terrified by Hobbes's friendly little chat to take more than a sip of PC Wilkes's version.
In the meantime, I relaxed, enjoying the fire and glancing round the little room. It held three armchairs, a battered old dining table with matching chairs and a small bureau covered in loose papers. To the right of the fireplace, a bookcase sagged beneath yellowing old books that I suspected were the source of the mustiness. On a shelf to the left stood a small television set that looked prehistoric and which was so encrusted in dust I doubted it would show a picture should it ever be turned on. Further to the left, a window looked out over a tiny lawn, glowing green as northern seas in the sun, which was just peeking out from beneath blanket cloud. There was a clattering from the kitchen, followed by the cheery whistle of a boiling kettle and the budgie's impression of it.
'Should I go and help?' I asked Hobbes, who was sitting with eyes closed, and breathing as deeply as if he'd fallen sleep.
'Eh? What? Oh no. He likes to look after himself. He'll be alright. You'll have to be patient. He doesn't need any help, providing he's allowed to go at his own pace.'
'He looks as old as Methuselah,' I whispered.
'He's not even close. He won't be a hundred until next August.'
'Have you known
him long?'
'Since boyhood.'
The kitchen door opening, Augustus shuffled in, shaking a tray piled with tea things, plates and a heap of biscuits. When I made a move to offer assistance, Hobbes raised a finger and an eyebrow and I sat back, twitching and fretting, desperate to hurry him up. Still, it was worth the wait for the tea tasted nearly as delicious and fragrant as Mrs Goodfellow's and there were heaps of biscuits to dunk and suck.
The old man, sat next to Hobbes, and they chatted briefly about the weather and aubergines. Then he fixed Hobbes with a steady gaze. 'Now,' he said, 'you always come here for a reason. What do you want to know?'
'Could you tell us about the Roman Cup at the church?'
Augustus frowned. 'The Roman Cup? Ah yes, I remember, I hear it has been stolen. Such a pity. It was a fine bit of work.'
'Do you know anything about it?' Hobbes took a sip of tea.
'Not much, I'm afraid,' said Augustus, stroking his whiskers between thumb and forefinger of his knobbly hand. 'It is, of course, not a Roman relic.'
Hobbes glanced at me.
'It's only been in the church for a few years. It was a gift in, let me think, 1953, I believe.'
'A gift to the church?' Hobbes raised his eyebrows.
'Yes, yes. It was the year the young queen got crowned. That's why I got that.' He pointed a bulbous finger at the television. 'There hasn't been much worth watching since. Now then, if I remember right, and I usually do, the cup was given by a young couple. Foreigners they were, but very pleasant and most respectable. They wanted to make a gesture of thanks to the good folk of Sorenchester who'd looked after them when they first arrived here. Just after the war, it would have been.'
Hobbes took out his notebook. 'Would you remember the name of the couple?'
'Of course I would. I may be old but I'm not yet in my dotage, I'll have you know.'
'Sorry. What was their name?'
Augustus chuckled. 'Do you really mean to say you don't know? I thought you were trying to trick me and you call yourself a detective? Dear oh dear. Mr and Mrs Roman donated it, so we called it the 'Roman Cup'. I'd have thought that might have been a clue.'
'It might have been,' said Hobbes, looking comically crestfallen, 'if we'd known it wasn't a cup made by the Romans.'
'Well, you know now,' said Augustus laughing into his tea. 'Just wait till I tell the boys about this.'
'Do you know where the Romans came from? The couple I mean not the empire builders,' asked Hobbes, not appearing at all put out by his mistake.
'They were from Romania.'
I gasped. 'Romania.'
'The boy can speak then?' Augustus smiled. 'Yes, they were Romanians, on the run first from the Nazis and then from the Communists. I used to see them at the church for many years. They had a young lad, too. I wonder what happened to them?'
'They've all passed away,' said Hobbes.
'I'm not surprised,' said Augustus, nodding. 'Some reckoned it was a communion chalice that had once belonged to a king and there was some doubt as to whether the Romans really owned it, yet, since no one else claimed it and they weren't trying to profit from it, the church accepted it in the spirit in which it was offered. It became quite an attraction, you know. However, I'm afraid that is really as much as I know about the cup, except that they'd brought it with them and it was very old.'
'Well thank you,' said Hobbes. 'That was most illuminating.'
'Would you like more tea?'
'No, thank you, I'm afraid there's important work to be done and we'd better be going.'
'So soon?' asked Augustus. 'Ah well, I was only going to ask how your painting was getting on. Do you still do it?'
To my surprise, Hobbes blushed. 'No, well, not often anyway.'
'A pity. You were showing promise. Still, maybe you can take it up again when you retire.'
'Maybe. We really must go.'
We said our goodbyes and left.
'What the hell's going on?' I asked as we stepped into Moorend Road.
'I don't know yet, though I've got a hunch it's something rather unusual. I was slow not picking up the link between Mr Roman and the cup but I still can't work out what it means. With luck we'll get more information from Tony. He's hard work, though. It's just a good job he's such a bad liar. A little more pressure might squeeze something useful from him.'
'So, what about Phil?' We crossed back into Vermin Street towards the shops and the police station.
Hobbes was walking at my pace, hunched up as though under a heavy load. I had never seen him look so worried before. 'Mr Waring?' he said, 'I'm beginning to fear the worst.'
'Do you think he's dead then?' An icy coldness seemed to have invaded my blood.
'I said, I feared the worst. You've seen enough to know death is not the worst that can happen.'
My blood would have run cold if it hadn't already been frozen. I was frightened for Phil, thoroughly ashamed of my silly, spiteful trick, wishing I could have taken the card back. If I'd had the courage, I would have told Hobbes.
A woman's voice called, 'Andy! Mr Hobbes!'
Ingrid had just stepped out of Boots. She wore a long, dark coat and a beige woolly hat that emphasised her pallor. She looked tired.
'Hello,' I said, trying to sound cheerful.
Hobbes stopped, saluting as she approached. 'Good day, Miss Jones.'
'Have you discovered anything about Phil?' she asked. 'I'm dreadfully worried.'
'We've found his car,' said Hobbes, 'and the person who took it will be answering a few questions shortly. I'm afraid I have no other news, although there is some evidence to link Mr Waring to a serious criminal offence yesterday.'
'Phil?' Frowning, she shook her head. 'There's no way he'd be involved in crime. He's not the sort. Maybe he was on a story?'
Hobbes nodded. 'That is likely, though we found an item of his at the crime scene.'
'I don't believe it.'
'I'm not sure I do either, miss. I smell a rat!'
A woman screamed; another joined her. Hobbes was right, a rat the size of a terrier was sauntering down the middle of the road, as if it owned the county. Certainly, no one seemed willing to block its path or to offer any sort of challenge.
Not until there was an explosive woof and a flurry of head shaking that ended with Dregs strolling towards us, tail wagging ecstatically, rat dangling limply. I don't know how he'd got out but he was evidently trying to ingratiate himself now I had the power of Mrs Goodfellow's tincture, and dropped the corpse onto my foot.
Hobbes chuckled. 'Sorry, Miss, I'd better be getting back to the station and look after the dog. He shouldn't be out on his own. Clear it up, Andy.' He pointed to the rat, turning away, continuing with his hunched walk. Dregs, to my relief, followed him.
I was left with Ingrid and a dead rat. Somehow, she never saw me at my best. I shrugged, smiling, trying to make light of the situation. 'I seem to have got ratted. I'd better get rid of it.' Fortunately, the large bin standing down the alley next to Boots looked suitable for a last resting-place. Bending, shuddering, I picked the rat up by the tip of its tail, praying it was really dead. I'd had enough pain from a hamster a tenth its size to feel completely at ease, though Dregs had broken its neck for sure. I held it at arm's length with an attempt at nonchalance.
'You horrible man,' said a woman, driving her words home with solid whacks from her rolled umbrella, 'murdering God's creatures without a second thought.'
I turned towards her.
It was the blue-rinsed woman from the church. 'You again,' she said, 'I might have known.'
With solid blows raining down on my head and shoulders, I raised my arm to protect myself. The rat's tail slipping through my fingers, it flew through the air, striking the woman full in the face. Screaming, she backed off. People had stopped in the street to watch the fun, yet now, somehow, their amusement evaporating, they saw me as the aggressor. Fingers pointed, hard words were flung as, forgetting Ingrid, I fled.
; 1 4
Cries of 'police', 'stop that man', 'knock him down', and 'three for a pound', pursued me as I plunged into the alley. I'd only gone a couple of steps before I was in an arm-lock, my face pressed against the wall. The mossy brickwork was damp against my cheek, while its odour, a medley of stale urine, vomit and chips, made me feel ill.
'Well done, constable,' said a pompous male voice. 'I witnessed the incident. He assaulted the lady with a dead rat. She was forced to beat him off with her umbrella.'
'No,' said a shrill female voice, 'I saw it all. He was torturing a poor dumb animal and, when the lady tried to stop him, he threw it in her face.'
'That's not what happened at all,' said Ingrid. 'A dog killed the rat and Andy was trying to dispose of the body when the woman attacked him, without provocation. He was only trying to protect himself.'
I nodded. Good old Ingrid, she'd get me out of the mess.
'Be quiet.' The police officer bellowed. It was Wilkes. It had to be Wilkes.
The crowd around the alley's entrance shut up.
Wilkes, turning me round to face him, winked and murmured, 'Nice to see you again. What is it with you and rodents?' He glanced at the crowd, raising his voice. 'There's nothing to see here. If anyone has anything to say, follow me to the station and say it.'
Placing a heavy hand on my shoulder, he frogmarched me to the station, only a couple of minutes away. I only managed one glance back as he thrust me through the station doorway, relieved that only Ingrid had followed. I hoped it was a sign that I was starting to make progress with her, though my thoughts were mostly concentrated on what Wilkes would do. I needn't have worried. Releasing me, he smiled and patted my back as we moved inside.
'Sorry about that, mate. I saw it all, so don't worry. The show of authority was to appease the mob – it usually works better than reasoning. Now, mind how you go.' He stepped back into the street.
I smiled at Ingrid, embarrassed as usual. 'I'm glad that's over.'
She seemed genuinely concerned. 'Are you alright? It was lucky the policeman saw what happened.'
'I'm fine and George Wilkes,' I said, nonchalantly, 'is a good man.' Maybe, I thought, he wasn't so bad.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 21
