3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  I was doing just fine until the bow tie, a conundrum way beyond my abilities. Having made a right pig’s ear of the whole rigmarole, frustration got the better of me and I punched the wall, a method that worked surprisingly well, since my yelp of pain and subsequent swearing brought Hobbes up to see what was the matter. He found me collapsed on the bed, clutching my hand and groaning.

  Summing up the situation at a glance, he said: ‘Bow ties can be tricky blighters. Stand up, shut up, and I’ll tie it for you.’

  Taking me by the throat, he set to work, his massive hairy fingers tying the black rag into a beautifully neat bow. It was a little tight: a little too tight. Clutching at it, I struggled to breathe, until, recognising my antics as signs of distress, he loosened it with a deft twist.

  ‘Thank you,’ I croaked.

  ‘Don’t mention it. Now put on your jacket, and quickly. It’s time to go.’

  ‘So, how are you going to get past those reporters?’ I asked, combing my hair and admiring myself in the mirror.

  ‘By distracting them and going over the roof tops.’

  ‘That’s all very well for you,’ I said, not liking the way this was developing, ‘but what about me? Shall I take Dregs?’

  ‘No, you’re coming with me.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ll fall off. No, it’s impossible.’

  ‘It is possible. I have a plan and you’ll probably be fine. You’ll see. First, however, I need something from the attic. While I’m getting it, open your window and turn off the light.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, my insides churning, but as usual, I realised I was going to let him do his stuff, and I was going to hope for the best. Turning off the light, I opened the window and looked down. Even from there, the street seemed a bowel-loosening long way below.

  Hobbes returned, carrying an ancient canvas rucksack that looked just about big enough for a human body. Surely not, I thought, as he put it down.

  ‘Get inside,’ he said, grinning benignly.

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes, and quickly.’

  I stepped into it and made myself small, discovering my initial assessment of its size had been a little wrong, as my head and shoulders poked out the top. However, before I could object, Hobbes grabbed the straps, lifted me and swung me onto his back.

  ‘Keep your head down,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t keep it any more down and how are you going to distract that lot outside? They are bound to look up.’

  ‘I’m not going to do anything.’

  ‘Do I have to do anything?’ I asked, peering over his shoulder, feeling precarious enough already.

  ‘No. Just relax and keep quiet. It’s time.’

  A tremendous cacophony broke out in the street, as if a tone deaf brass band on steroids was performing.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Hobbes, springing lightly out the window.

  Had my mouth not been dry, as if coated in peanut butter, I might have screamed. Twisting my neck, I stared down at the street, which was glittering under silvery streetlights and already looking much further away. The rucksack swung as Hobbes, twisting in mid-air, reaching out with one great, muscular arm, grabbed the top of the window frame, and hauled us up and onto the roof. As he scrambled on all fours to the summit, the tuneless braying ceased.

  ‘Alright, Andy?’

  ‘Umm … I suppose.’

  ‘Good. Hold on tight.’

  ‘Hold on to what?’

  There was no reply.

  Blackdog Street consisted of two parallel rows of tall, terraced houses and shops. Hobbes, as agile as a monkey, despite me swinging and bumping on his back, ran along the ridge towards the end of the street next to the Parish Church. Even in my terrified state, I was struck by how magnificent and strange the church looked from such an unusual vantage point. I tried to think about its architecture and not about what would happen should Hobbes slip, or should the frayed old straps on the rucksack snap.

  He stopped and stood upright.

  ‘Where does Sid live exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘Number one, Doubtful Street.’

  ‘That’s to the left, isn’t it?’ Below was the gentle curve of Pound Street. Doubtful Street, one of the oldest in town, led onto it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do we get down?’

  ‘Getting down from a roof is easy, although getting down safely may be less so. Do you see that wall over there, the one around the big garden?’

  I grunted an acknowledgment, fearing the worst.

  ‘Well, once we’re on that, it’s an easy drop into Pound Street.’

  ‘But, it’s miles away! How can we possibly reach it? It’s impossible.’ I wished I’d decided to stay home and make do with toast.

  ‘It’s not impossible. I don’t think so, anyway.’

  ‘You’re not going to … oh, God!’

  Hobbes, having taken a few paces back, sprinted along the ridge until, when there was no roof left, he leapt. I didn’t scream, the acceleration having squeezed all the air from my lungs, but I did manage a pathetic whimper that was instantly carried away in the wind rushing past my face. There was a sensation of weightlessness, a long moment when my heart seemed to have stopped and a thud that nearly bounced me from the rucksack. Within a few steps, we came to a halt.

  We were on the wall.

  Hobbes clapped his hands. ‘I thought we’d make it.’

  ‘You didn’t know for sure?’

  ‘Not for sure. I’ve never carried anyone before. It was fun.’

  ‘We could have been killed.’

  ‘But we weren’t. Now, let’s get down before somebody sees us and calls the police.’

  The jump down seemed trivial, and I was suddenly safe, or as safe as anyone could be who was on their way to meet a vampire.

  ‘You might as well walk from here,’ said Hobbes, setting the rucksack down on the pavement.

  Getting out wasn’t as easy as getting in; my legs wobbled like those of a punched out boxer.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, swinging the rucksack onto one shoulder. ‘We don’t want to keep Sid waiting.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, struggling to keep up, trying not to think of how we’d get home, ‘but can you explain something?’

  ‘I can explain many things.’

  ‘I know, but what made that awful racket?’

  He laughed. ‘That was Billy testing his new car horn. I phoned and asked him to put in an appearance. It worked rather well, don’t you think?’

  I nodded. Billy Shawcroft, a good friend of Hobbes, was a dwarf of no small ability, who had shown himself a very useful man in a crisis, and the reconditioned hearse he drove had proved its worth on several occasions.

  Turning into Doubtful Street, we stopped outside number 1, a high, narrow, old house of dusty, lichen-encrusted stone, with a shiny black front door. Leaning forward, Hobbes gave the old-fashioned bell-pull a sharp downward tug and from within came the deep tones of bell. So far, so Gothic, I thought, closing my hand around my garlic bulb.

  A moment later, there came a sound of shuffling feet and the door opened with a satisfyingly spooky creak. Inside, all was dark, except for the flickering light of a single candle held in a pale hand.

  ‘Enter,’ said a soft voice.

  Nervously, I followed Hobbes inside, going down a corridor in which the candlelight cast grotesque flickering shadows onto dark, heavy-looking furniture. The front door closed behind us.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ said the soft voice. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry it’s so dark, but the bulb’s just blown. Please, go into the kitchen.’

  Hobbes, opening a door, led us into a large, comfortable, well-lit, modern kitchen, where he introduced me to Sid, who was not as I’d imagined. He was shorter than I and rather paunchy, with a balding head and plump, florid cheeks. Yet what surprised me most was his welcoming, white-toothed smile and friendly dark brown eyes.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, young fellow,’ he said,
taking my hand in his soft pudgy one and shaking it vigorously.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, wondering again whether Hobbes was playing a trick on me.

  Sid nodded and then looked distressed. ‘I’m afraid I’m having a bad day. First the bulb goes and then I discover I’ve completely run out of garlic.’

  Reaching into my pocket, I held out my hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sid. ‘I don’t suppose you brought any dill?’

  4

  The kitchen was mostly white, with every surface gleaming, and, above a sharp hint of bleach and a faint scent of apples, there was a beautiful, rich, delicious smell rising from a large copper pot bubbling on a vast wood-fired range. Sid, smiling at us over a bow tie that was nearly as large as Hobbes’s, gestured towards the table and Hobbes and I sat down on cushioned pinewood chairs.

  ‘It was lucky you had garlic with you,’ said Sid, ‘because the soup is not the same without it.’

  ‘Umm … yes, it was. I don’t usually carry it.’

  ‘Was it anything to do with me being what I am?’

  ‘Umm … well, yes, I suppose it was,’ I said, more embarrassed than afraid.

  ‘I expect,’ said Sid, with a glance at Hobbes, ‘that Wilber told you part of the story, just enough to get you worried.’

  ‘Would I do anything like that?’ said Hobbes, trying to look innocent.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding, ‘you would. Umm … Wilber?’

  ‘It’s short for Wilberforce,’ said Sid.

  ‘Wilberforce?’ I said, staring. ‘Is that his name?’ I’d never dared ask, though I had noticed the signature on his paintings was W.M. Hobbes.

  Sid nodded.

  ‘In that case,’ I asked, ‘what does the M stand for?’

  ‘His second name,’ said Sid. ‘is—’

  ‘A secret,’ said Hobbes, shaking his head and looking embarrassed.

  ‘—is Makepeace.’ Sid, breaking the garlic into cloves, sniffed them and nodded his approval.

  Hobbes, putting his head in his hands, groaned. ‘My awful secret is out. It was bound to happen one day.’

  ‘Wilberforce Makepeace Hobbes?’ I chuckled.

  ‘Apparently both Wilberforce and Makepeace were popular names when I was a lad,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’m quite proud of them … really.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Sid, ‘before I was interrupted, I was trying to say that I love a bit of garlic and, furthermore, I have no adverse reaction to crosses, or holy water, or any of that nonsense.’

  ‘I guess everything I think I know about vampires is wrong,’ I said, feeling more at ease. ‘Umm … what about stakes, though? Would a stake through the heart kill you?’

  ‘Andy,’ said Hobbes, ‘that’s not nice.’

  Sid held up his hand. ‘No, it’s a fair question, if a little daft. So far as I’m aware, a stake through the heart would kill anyone and, before you ask, so would decapitation.’ With a chuckle, he turned towards a chopping board, and selected a broad bladed knife.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hobbes. ‘He’s not normally so forward. He’s probably tired.’

  ‘Don’t worry, old boy,’ said Sid. ‘Most humans take a while to adjust. You can’t blame them, really. There’s so much piffle out there. Just try googling the word vampire and you’ll find there are millions of hits and hardly any of them come even close to the truth.’

  ‘I did tell him,’ said Hobbes, ‘that you would not dream of drinking his blood.’

  ‘He did.’ I agreed.

  ‘That’s alright then,’ said Sid, examining the edge of the knife. ‘Did he also mention that I prefer to dine on human brains?’

  I shook my head, my mouth dropping open.

  ‘I’m surprised,’ said Sid. ‘He usually does.’

  Having crushed and chopped the garlic, he threw it into a small pot on the range, along with a knob of butter. The fragrance cut through everything else and made me even hungrier.

  Hobbes was grinning and, I thought, looking somewhat sheepish.

  ‘When the garlic is nicely browned,’ said Sid, ‘I’ll add it to the soup and then we can have a good chat while it finishes. Help yourselves to wine while you’re waiting.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hobbes, reaching for a bottle in the middle of the table. Pulling off the foil capsule, he gave three sharp smacks to the bottom of the bottle, making the cork rise up. Pulling it out with a gentle pop, sniffing it with a nod of approval, he flicked it across the kitchen, straight into a flip top bin.

  ‘Would you care for a little, Andy?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Having filled three glasses with the dark red, almost purple liquid, he pushed one towards me and took one for himself. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, sniffing, satisfying myself that it really was wine, and taking a sip. It was rich and fruity, with a warm velvety feel and was more than acceptable. Since living at Hobbes’s I’d developed a rudimentary palate and considered I now knew enough to avoid anything likely to dissolve my teeth or blind me.

  We sat in silence for a few moments, sipping, enjoying the flavour, relaxing as the sizzling garlic, combined with the other cooking aromas, set my mouth watering.

  ‘Is he really a vampire?’ I whispered.

  ‘I really am,’ said Sid, who was suddenly standing right behind me.

  Jerking with shock, I knocked over my glass. Sid caught it and handed it back without a drop spilling.

  ‘We have sharp ears as well as sharp teeth,’ he said.

  ‘Not to mention sharp reflexes,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘Hardly, old boy, I’ve slowed down with age.’

  ‘Age?’ said Hobbes, looking severe. ‘More like your drunken life style.’

  ‘Drunken? I haven’t touched a drop since 1950.’

  ‘Since it’s only ten-past eight, now,’ said Hobbes, ‘you’ve lasted all of twenty minutes.’ He handed a glass to the old vampire.

  ‘Much obliged,’ said Sid, raising it to his lips. ‘Good health!’

  If he was a vampire, and I had few doubts anymore, he was a cheerful one.

  ‘The soup will be ready in just a few minutes,’ he said, taking a seat at the head of the table.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, raising my voice over the rumbling of my stomach.

  ‘It’s borscht, my own recipe and I hope you like it.’

  ‘It smells great,’ I said, unsure what borscht was, but unwilling to expose my ignorance.

  ‘It does indeed,’ said Hobbes and refilled his glass. ‘It’s very good of you to have us.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Your invitation was most opportune. You see, my house is currently under siege, and getting out is a trifle tricky.’ Hobbes took a gulp of wine and stretched out his legs.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Sid, ‘the barbarians at the gates. I’ve been keeping an eye on the news. I’m always a little nervous with crowds, because they are, in my experience, only one step removed from turning into mobs and taking up flaming brands and pitchforks.’

  ‘You’ve had no more trouble of that sort since moving here, have you?’ said Hobbes.

  ‘No, and for that I give you thanks, old boy.’

  ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Like you were last night,’ said Sid. ‘It’s regrettable someone caught your antics on camera, but otherwise you did well. I don’t like losing our money.’

  ‘Your money?’ I said, surprised, for the news had suggested the gang was trying to steal over a million pounds in gold sovereigns and, although Sid’s house suggested he was comfortably off, he didn’t strike me as a millionaire.

  ‘In a manner of speaking. The gold actually belongs to Colonel Squire, but since he was depositing it in my bank, I have a stake in it.’

  Colonel Squire, the owner of Sorenchester Manor and several estates, was reputed to be very rich indeed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hobbes. ‘The colonel said he was diversifying his investments.’

&nb
sp; ‘But why was he doing it at night?’ I asked. ‘Why not during normal banking hours?’

  ‘There are two good reasons,’ said Sid. ‘Firstly, the colonel is rich enough to make the bank jump to his command. Secondly, he wanted me to accept the deposit personally and, if I have to go out, I prefer to do it at night. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll serve the soup.’

  Rising, he strolled across to the stove, very light on his feet for one so portly, and, returning with a vast tureen, ladled out generous portions into three large, white bowls. The soup was red and frothy.

  I looked at it, then at Hobbes. He smiled.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked, trying to sound calm, trying to dispel a rising horror.

  ‘Borscht,’ said Sid, fetching a basket of thickly sliced, crusty bread and a butter dish. As if that explained everything.

  ‘Yes, but what’s actually in it, besides garlic.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ said Sid with a chuckle, ‘that the colour is worrying you.’

  I nodded, feeling sick.

  ‘It’s made with beetroot, and don’t worry, there’s no blood in it.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ I said, relieved. ‘I didn’t really think there would be.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Sid, looking solemn.

  I felt no fear. Whatever he was, he was no threat.

  ‘Please, help yourself to bread,’ said Sid, ‘and eat. I hope you enjoy it.’

  After Hobbes had said his customary grace, I did eat. The borscht had a robust, almost earthy flavour with a hint of sweetness, not to mention a satisfying nuttiness and a strong meaty flavour, with just a hint of sourness that piqued my taste buds. In fact, it was so good I even entertained the possibility that it might equal one of Mrs G’s soups, though it felt disloyal to think so. Maybe it was because of my extreme hunger, or the contrast to Mother’s well-meaning horrors.

  I tucked in, listening with half an ear to Hobbes and Sid talking about Rocky, the Olde Troll, who’d apparently fallen asleep while out standing in his field, and had woken up covered in graffiti. Although the brisk application of a wire brush had restored him to pristine condition, Rocky had complained bitterly about the loss of his lichen patina. Then, when I might have expected more talk of old times and old acquaintances, the conversation turned to gold and banking. I was surprised to learn that Hobbes kept a deposit box in Grossman’s Bank, a box he hadn’t touched since 1922.