Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman)

by Martin, Wilkie

  Something was tapping at my window. Getting up, drawing back the curtains, seeing Narcisa floating out there, her purple robe flapping like wings in the spangled sky, I shuddered and was trying to shut out the sight when her dead eyes met mine. She smiled, two rows of sharp wolf's teeth glinting in the starlight, pointing a blood red fingernail at the window. My neck burning, pleading with her to leave me in peace, I shook my head, yet had no power to resist as it opened. She glided in on a chilling breeze, clutching my hand, her grip so cold it burned, her glazed eyes staring into mine. I was paralysed as her thin lips, scarlet in a ghastly, white face, opened to speak and I knew, when they did, I would become like her. I heard words as if from a great distance …

  'Wakey, wakey, dear. It's nearly eleven o'clock.'

  I jerked into consciousness, my heart thumping. I was in bed.

  'You were having a bad dream. Never mind, it's a fine bright day and your breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. Look sharp. I've laid out clean clothes for you.'

  Narcisa wasn't there, just Mrs Goodfellow and Dregs, who'd been licking my hand. At least, I assumed it had been the dog. The curtains being drawn back, winter sunlight drenched me and I did not crumble into dust. My stomach grumbled to confirm I wasn't undead and, in the rush of relief, I whooped like an idiot before remembering Hobbes.

  'How is he?'

  'Not so bad now.'

  She smiled and there was something strange, yet oddly familiar, about her. She had teeth in her mouth: the same ones I'd had stuck in my neck. I tried to ignore my horror.

  'He had four mugs of tea,' she continued, 'and Sugar Puffs for his breakfast and now he's sleeping like a kitten. He said you saved him from the beast.'

  'The beast? Narcisa?'

  'I think he meant you saved him from himself. Now come on.' She left, taking the dog, now, to my delight, fully recovered.

  After washing and dressing, I limped down to the kitchen for a cooked breakfast as delicious and necessary as a breakfast could be. Finishing, I brushed the crumbs from my front as Mrs Goodfellow started on the dishes.

  'I was really glad to see you last night,' I said. 'How did you find us?'

  'Well, dear,' she said, picking up my plate, 'when you weren't back for your supper, I thought I'd better find you, so I called the station, who said someone answering to your description had run amuck in Fenderton with a dangerous dog, and I was just getting ready to leave when poor Dregs came home in a terrible state. I had to clean him up first. What happened?'

  'Mrs Witcherley pepper sprayed him, which probably saved me, because she'd run out when it was my turn.'

  Mrs Goodfellow nodded, tight-lipped, scrubbing the frying pan furiously. 'That new curate gave me a ride on his motorbike. He's got nice teeth – nearly as nice as yours, dear. He dropped me off in Fenderton and I was wondering what to do next when a ratty little fellow ran from the big house, screaming like his pants were on fire. I reckoned the old fellow sometimes has that effect on folk, so I took a look inside. The fat man was snoring his head off and I searched all through the house without finding anyone sensible. Someone had muddied up the stair carpet and I was looking at it when I heard noises from the cellar and went downstairs.'

  'You got there just in time. The dagger was far too close.' I took a deep breath. 'I'll dry. Where's the tea towel?'

  'Thank you, dear. There are clean ones in the drawer.'

  Choosing one with a nice view of the Blacker Mountains, I began wiping a mug. 'Who'd have thought Narcisa would be killed by her own dagger?'

  'She wasn't killed, dear.'

  'But it stuck in her head, didn't it?' I hung the mug on the mug tree, where, clinking tunefully against another, it knocked off its handle. I pushed the evidence behind the packet of Sugar Puffs.

  'No, only her ear. It pinned her to the table thing. She started moaning, trying to pull it out when you were away, so I had to give her a little tap to quiet her down. She's in hospital now, under police guard, more's the pity. After what she did to my boys, I'd like to have words with her.'

  'She bit my neck and I was scared I'd become a vampire like her.' In fact, I was still nervous in case the change had merely been delayed.

  Mrs Goodfellow, spitting out Narcisa's teeth into her hand, held them up to the light. 'With these? No, dear, she's no vampire. The real ones don't go in for all the Gothic nonsense, they don't need daggers or rituals and they always have lovely, gleaming, pearly whites. They shed the old worn out ones and new ones pop up, a bit like with sharks. I've got some in a jar – I'll show you later if you like.'

  'Thanks.' I smiled, drying the last plate and stacking it on the dresser. 'Umm … is Sorenchester normal? I mean to say, is it worse than other places, you know, with all these ghouls and trolls and vampires and things?'

  'I don't know quite what you mean. They're just folk, same as you and me, though a bit different, like the old fellow and Rocky. Most of 'em are no worse than anyone else and some are better. However, you're correct in thinking there are more round these parts than most places. That's because of the old fellow. He polices them fairly and they know there'll be no trouble unless they break the rules and, just as important, they know just what'll happen if they step too far out of line. He might appear soft-hearted to you, dear, but he can be quite strict when he has to be.

  'Thank you for helping with the dishes. Now, I've got to take the dog for his walk and then I'd better get down to the shops.' She smiled. 'I'm right out of garlic.'

  Life went on and I never developed a taste for blood.

  Hobbes was very quiet and weak on the first day of his recovery, sleeping most of the time, waking to drink lashings of tea or Mrs Goodfellow's ginger beer. By the second day he was a little more alert, though his voice had diminished to a soft grumble I had to strain to hear. Not that he spoke much, relying on nods or shakes of his head to respond to questions. Now and again, furious growls, as if someone had kicked a wasps' nest, would explode from his room when Mrs Goodfellow gave him a bed-bath or fussed too much. I looked in from time to time, though it was clear he was only tolerating me. I think he was embarrassed at being seen in such a frail state.

  Over the next few days, Mrs Goodfellow surpassed herself in preparing feasts fit for a king, though I can't imagine how she got her hands on swan and sturgeon. To start with, Hobbes ate comparatively little, so Dregs and I were well-stuffed with leftovers. Now and again, always after dark, Rocky turned up to check on progress, to eat crumpets and to express quiet pleasure at his patient's rate of recovery. His visits ceased after the fifth evening.

  As my injuries healed, Dregs and I enjoyed long walks in Ride Park. One day, cashing in Rex's cheque, I paid off my debts. What little was left over, I offered to Mrs Goodfellow for my keep but she refused to take it. As a gesture of thanks, I tried to fix the loose floorboards in the loft and don't think I did too much damage.

  One morning, from Tahiti, came a postcard, reeking of cigar smoke. I read it, though it wasn't for me.

  Dearest Wife,

  It's been nearly ten years since I went away to find myself. I now find myself in Tahiti where I have founded a naturist colony. So far I'm the only one. One day I hope you'll join me.

  Your loving husband,

  Robin.

  The mystery of why he no longer required clothes was solved, though why they were such a good fit was still baffling. When I handed the card to the old girl she read it, chuckling.

  'He's quite mad, you know? Still, I think he's happy.' She stuck it into a scrapbook with many others.

  Hobbes began to sit up in bed with the aid of pillows, even getting up for short periods, though he was shaky and soon became grumpy. Still it was clear he was recovering at an astonishing speed – but, then, he was Hobbes.

  On occasion, he received visitors. Though there weren't many, he seemed to appreciate them, especially a plump old guy called Sid who wore a black cape and had the whitest teeth I'd ever seen. Like Rocky, he only turned up at night. Superint
endent Cooper paid a visit one afternoon. I'd expected someone fierce, whereas she was plump and motherly; she stayed with him for over an hour and he was thoughtful when she left.

  One morning Phil came round, and it came as a jaw-dropping surprise when he introduced a tanned and fit-looking young man, who'd just returned from Hollywood, as Tom, his boyfriend, a nice enough chap – not my sort of course. I was happy for them. Admittedly, this was partly because it seemed to have removed one major barrier to Ingrid, or so I thought until Phil handed me an envelope. My delusion lasted until, opening it, I found an invitation to her wedding.

  Phil, guessing the reason for my sudden dejection, pointed out that Ingrid had been engaged for a year and that I'd attended her engagement party. I could vaguely remember an evening at the Bear with the Sore Head when I hadn't had to pay for my lager, when some affable Scottish guy had been hanging around Ingrid, buying drinks for everybody. I'd not paid him much attention, being focussed, so far as I could focus, on preventing Phil getting too close. I could have wept, yet couldn't help feeling she'd found a far better man than me and, though I wished them both well, it felt like I'd been punched in the gut – except the ache lasted far longer.

  Hobbes didn't speak about what had happened until, a day of winter sunshine cheering him up, he got out of bed, dressed in a shapeless brown dressing gown and strolled with me around the back garden. After a few minutes he sat on a bench, which was cunningly situated where it would capture any warmth from the pale sun. I sat beside him as he breathed deeply for a few moments.

  'Well,' he said at last, 'I expect you'd like to know what happened?'

  'I would. The suspense has been killing me.'

  He chuckled, deep and soft as distant thunder. 'I'll start from when I got back to the station. I had a short, if informative, chat with Tony before releasing him. I couldn't detain him any longer. After all, he had come in voluntarily.'

  I said nothing.

  A faint grin twitched on his lips. 'At the time, I entertained suspicions that Rex Witcherley had used the noisy party to cover the museum break-in and it hadn't occurred to me that Mrs Witcherley might be the villain. She seemed such a nice lady, though I'm no expert. I was planning to get my car and go straight round to see Mr Witcherley when I had a thought. Do you remember the scent of flowers on the glove fibres?'

  I nodded.

  'I knew I'd smelt it somewhere before and, finally, it came to me. It had been in Mr Witcherley's office and it was her perfume, only the cigarette smoke had masked it. I made sketches of Tony and Mrs Witcherley together and fell to speculating whether one of Mr Barrington-Oddy's assailants might have been a woman. His description of the taller one, vague though it was, fitted Mrs Witcherley and the other assailant could easily have been Tony.'

  'Who you'd just released.'

  He shrugged. 'I thought he might lead me to Mr Waring.'

  'You were going to see Rex. How could he lead you if you weren't following him?'

  He tapped the side of his nose. 'Tony's trail's is not difficult to pick up when you know where he started and I did go round to the Witcherley's eventually. Their house is smart, isn't it?'

  I nodded. 'Too smart.'

  'Mrs Witcherley came to the door and must have known why I was there, because she confused me by bursting into tears, confessing and begging for forgiveness. She said her husband had made her do it and offered to take me to see Mr Waring. Something about a woman in tears makes me soft-hearted, and it seems to have made me soft-headed as well. I believed her. She asked me to follow her to the garage, where she would show me something. She did.'

  'What?'

  'That I was a fool to trust her. Telling me to stand aside, she unlocked the garage doors and next thing I knew she'd squirted pepper spray into my face. I took a step back and I guess she must have opened a trap-door because I dropped through into the pit.'

  'Why would she have a pit?'

  'It was an ice store. There used to be a millpond in Lower Fenderton, down by the river, from where they'd cut ice blocks in winter, storing them underground to keep things cool before we had fridges. She must have adapted it. I don't know why, though I'm certain it wasn't done for my benefit. Anyway, it was a long drop and, though some old leaves broke my fall, it knocked me out, I think.'

  'Phil said you'd dropped in.'

  'Yes, and I felt he was there, though he wasn't making much sense. They'd doped him and, when he came to and complained, she sprayed him.'

  I grimaced in sympathy.

  Hobbes continued. 'Being stuck in the pit with no way out, unable to get a signal on my mobile, all I could do was wait and see what she had in store for me. At least it gave me time to listen, to think and to piece together the story. It was clear she was the villain and Mr Witcherley was not involved at all. I grew hungry, thirsty, furious and desperate until you dropped in with the leg of lamb, which was most welcome. How did you do get there?'

  I related my own sorry exploits and, despite skipping the most embarrassing bits, still felt like a bumbling incompetent. He didn't see it that way.

  'You did well,' he said.

  Though I don't know if he meant it, it cheered me up.

  'You know,' I said, 'I really thought you were going to attack me when I fell in.'

  'Well,' he said, 'I didn't.'

  Something in his eyes stopped any further questioning along that line.

  'Thank you,' I said. 'So, what was Narcisa trying to achieve?'

  'Ah, now that is interesting. You know her family comes from Romania? Well, she seems to have got it into her head that she was descended from Vlad Tepes …'

  'It was his dagger?'

  'Possibly. It certainly looks like the one in his portrait. You saw it?'

  I nodded.

  'Vlad's father, being a member of the Order of the Dragon, Vlad was known as Dracula, which translates as 'son of the dragon'.'

  'What's that got to do with Narcisa?'

  'I'm afraid Mrs Witcherley, driven mad by increasing signs of her own mortality, became convinced a blood ritual would help her regain her youth.'

  'Why Phil's blood?'

  'His investigations were becoming a danger to her and his blood was as good as anyone's.'

  'Tony thought they were only going to frighten him,' I said, 'and tried to stop her.'

  Hobbes nodded. 'I'm not surprised. Though he is nasty, vindictive and greedy, he's not a killer.

  From what I heard, Mrs Witcherley had an old book detailing a blood-ritual, which seems to have put the idea into her head and began collecting specific artefacts that were, on the face of it, connected with Vlad Tepes. They were certainly Romanian and date from roughly the right period and, although it's anyone's guess how authentic they are, they undeniably match items shown in the portrait, which Mr Roman had sold her. I believe he elevated the value of his dagger by modifying the painting – he was good at copying and pastiche.'

  'I saw the book,' I said. 'Biggs from the museum sold it to her and offered her the bracelet.'

  'So the superintendent informed me,' said Hobbes. 'Mr Biggs and Mr Roman were in cahoots but failed to realise how dangerous she was. Anyway, as you know, Mrs Witcherley eventually got her hands on the Roman Cup, the ring and the bracelet. She picked up the altar at a church jumble, though it wasn't for sale.'

  'What about Jimmy? Who killed him? And buried him? And then dug him up?' I shook my head, still baffled.

  'I never believed Mr Roman's account of the break-in,' said Hobbes, 'and we proved he'd lied when we found the violin in his car boot. As I see it, Mr Roman refused to listen to Jimmy when he demanded money and threatened to call the police. Jimmy left in a fury, ending up getting drunk at the Feathers, where he had the misfortune to fall in with Tony, who'd been working for Mrs Witcherley since she caught him breaking into their house.

  Jimmy made some wild threats about what he'd like to do with Mr Roman's dagger, though I doubt he meant them, and let slip that he knew the combination to Mr
Roman's safe. Tony told Mrs Witcherley, who was desperate to get hold of the dagger and promised Jimmy money to steal it, which must have sounded like the answer to his problems. For her, it was considerably cheaper than paying what Mr Roman was demanding. Sadly, he caught Jimmy in the act and there was a struggle. I suspect the fatal injury occurred on the lawn outside the French windows. Do you remember I draw your attention to that soggy patch?'

  'Yes,' I nodded. 'Oh, I get it! It was soggy because Roman had swilled all the blood away.'

  'I fear so, and I believe he did it immediately after killing Jimmy.'

  'With the Dagger of Tepes?'

  'Indeed.' Hobbes looked grave. 'Poor, silly Jimmy.'

  'And poor Anna.' I still felt sorry for the sweet-faced little woman.

  A thin film of cloud dimming the sun, I shivered. A murder story is no longer a mere shock-horror entertainment when you know someone involved in it.

  Hobbes sighed. 'Mr Roman, panicking, buried the body in the grave, which I suspect he'd previously used as a hiding place for smuggled antiques. He was not as respectable as he made out.'

  'But why that particular grave?'

  'Simply, it was hidden from the road, yet Mondragon is a Romanian name and there may have been a deeper reason. The secret probably died with Mr Roman. Tony, who had been keeping an eye on things, witnessed the killing and the disposal of the body and tried to blackmail him into handing over the dagger.'

  'Which was still in Jimmy's back.'

  'Right.' Hobbes nodded. 'Tony didn't know that at first. He had, however made a note of the safe's combination and broke in himself when Mr Roman refused to hand it over.'

  'Ah,' I said, 'so, there were two break-ins and Tony was the one who left the piece of paper behind. It was clever to spot the clue on the back.'

  'Thank you.' He looked pleased. 'Carelessness has always been Tony's downfall. Anyway, Mr Roman must have felt the pressure building, what with the killing and the blackmail and a second break-in. It was the final straw when the violin section came to his house and called the police.