3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  Glowing and clean, I dressed and headed for the kitchen, where Sid prepared a full English breakfast for me to devour. That, washed down with more coffee, left me buoyant and ready to face anything. I’d just finished when the doorbell rang and he went to answer.

  A moment later he walked in with Hobbes, who was sporting a bushy beard, a matching moustache and sunglasses.

  ‘Good morning, how are you?’ said Hobbes.

  ‘Quite well. Sid’s been looking after me.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hobbes. ‘Do you fancy going camping?’

  ‘I don’t know. When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Umm … where to?’

  ‘Straddlingate.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s in the Blacker Mountains,’ said Hobbes. ‘I haven’t been back there for ages and it should be splendid this time of year.’

  I could think of no reason why I shouldn’t go. Perhaps I should have tried harder. ‘OK then,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ve packed a tent and rations and clothes for both of us.’

  ‘Umm … how do we get there? You broke the car.’

  ‘Billy’s agreed to take us until the road runs out. After that, we’re on our own.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘I’ve brought you some fresh clothes,’ said Hobbes, handing me a small bag.

  I took it, hurried upstairs and got changed. A tweed suit was not quite what I’d envisaged, but it was, at least, an improvement on evening wear. I went back down.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Hobbes, turning to shake Sid’s hand. ‘Thank you for supper last night, and for looking after Andy and for your advice’

  ‘Always a pleasure,’ said Sid. ‘Take care.’

  ‘Goodbye. I’ll be in touch soon,’ said Hobbes, bundling me from the house into the street.

  Billy Shawcroft was leaning against his old hearse, which was glinting in the sunlight.

  ‘Wotcha,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘Hi,’ I said and was knocked onto my back.

  Dregs, who’d been preparing for the journey against a lamppost, had leapt at me, greeting my return to his world as if I’d been away for a month. As his great, pink tongue snaked towards my face, I rolled to the side and pushed him off, alarmed by the white flecks around his jaws.

  ‘Stop messing about,’ said Hobbes, ‘and let’s get away before any reporters show up.’

  Although there was plenty of room in the front of the hearse, I had to go in the back because Dregs insisted on riding there in case he wanted to stick his big, black head out the window. I wasn’t much bothered for, despite having to share my space with a bagged tent and two bulging rucksacks, I could stretch out and relax. Billy, having strapped the wooden blocks to his feet that allowed him to reach the pedals, adjusted a pile of cushions and, when able to see over the steering wheel, drove away.

  ‘I take it the reporters are still there,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hobbes. ‘Even more than yesterday.’

  ‘How did you get out of there with Dregs?’ I asked, unable to imagine even Hobbes persuading him into a rucksack.

  ‘I squirted shaving foam around his chops, opened the front door and shoved him out. As soon as the reporters saw him, they scattered like leaves in the wind, and I ran round the corner to meet Billy. I don’t think anyone saw me.’

  I laughed, impressed and amused by the brilliant simplicity of the plan. ‘So how long will it take to get to wherever we’re going?’

  ‘About two hours,’ said Billy. ‘I’ve filled up, so we won’t have to stop.’

  He drove at a good speed, nowhere near as fast as Hobbes went, yet considerably faster than was normal, or decorous, for hearses. Fenderton passed in a blur and in no time we were heading upwards through lush green hills towards the dual carriageway. As soon as we were out of town, Hobbes peeled off his facial hair. He had a touching faith in his disguises, though his sheer size and enormous presence made him stick out like a panda in a poodle parlour.

  When we reached the motorway, we headed north, maintaining a steady seventy miles per hour. Billy hummed along to the radio, switching stations whenever a tune failed to reach his standard. Hobbes was relaxed, his patience surprising for one more used to breakneck speed. Billy was just about the only other driver he trusted.

  When the news came on, the attempted gold robbery had been relegated to third place, but Hobbes sat up when Jeremy Pratt reported a fresh development.

  ‘Within the last few minutes,’ said Jeremy, sounding both excited and pompous, ‘a police spokesman informed me that a white van suspected of having been used in the attempted robbery was discovered burnt out on waste ground close to where it was last spotted. Although a forensic team is on the scene, it seems unlikely that any evidence will have survived the blaze.

  ‘Of Inspector Hobbes, who, you will remember, heroically battled the gang, there has been no sign. There is speculation that he is actively pursuing the remaining gang members.’

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘Sid was right about the van, more’s the pity. I’m glad to be taking a break. He was right about that, too.’

  The journey continued peacefully, until Billy, running out of acceptable radio stations began singing. His high-pitched voice was strangely musical and soon I joined in, as did Dregs, who assisted on the high notes with howls, while supplying percussive barking and tail thumping where appropriate. Hobbes, despite claiming not to like this modern rubbish, sang along when the fancy took him and, fortunately, kept the volume down.

  At last we left the motorway, heading west through fertile, undulating countryside, intersected with small rivers and streams. It was new territory to me, and the black and white cottages with their neatly thatched roofs, the fields and the orchards appealed, yet we quickly passed by, the road rising and narrowing as we headed towards the blue-grey of distant hills. A motorbike overtook at reckless speed.

  ‘I’d have had him,’ said Hobbes, ‘if I was on duty. It’s his lucky day.’

  But it wasn’t. A few miles further on, as we entered a village called Much Wetfoot, we stopped at a T-junction, something the biker had apparently failed to do, having ploughed straight ahead, demolishing a road sign, hitting a wall, flying over it and coming to rest amid the shattered glass of a greenhouse. A small crowd of local yokels had gathered to watch.

  We stopped to help, but the biker was unhurt, seemingly more upset by the damage to the front forks of his bike than by his near death and the mess he’d caused, until Hobbes took him aside for a quiet word. As Dregs relieved himself on the bike’s back wheel, a tall man in a battered jacket, his dark eyes strangely unfocussed, stared at Billy and me. His breath reeked of cider.

  ‘Good day, sir’ said Billy. ‘What’s the quickest way to get from here to Blackcastle?’

  ‘Drive there,’ said the man.

  ‘But which way?’ said Billy, with a glance at the demolished sign.

  The man laughed and sat on the wall. ‘Only joking, lads. Take the left fork.’

  ‘How can we ever thank you?’ I said.

  ‘A drink wouldn’t be a bad idea,’ said the man, oblivious to my sarcasm.

  ‘I’ll sort it,’ said Billy, taking something that rustled from his trousers, reaching up and stuffing it into the man’s top pocket. ‘Have one on us.’

  ‘Cheers, lads,’ said the man, with a grin and a cidery burp.

  When we piled back into the hearse, I noticed our helpful friend was looking glum.

  ‘What did you give him?’ I asked.

  ‘A sachet of drinking chocolate,’ said Billy, chuckling. ‘We were given free samples at the Feathers, only Featherlight won’t do drinks like that. He says they’re for wimps.’

  A few miles on, the ground ever steeper, Billy asked where to turn.

  ‘Soon,’ said Hobbes. ‘You see up there?’ He pointed. ‘That’s the start of the Black Mountains.’ He moved his finger a little to the left. ‘That steeper ridge ov
er there is the Blacker Mountains.’

  ‘I hadn’t even heard of them,’ I admitted.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Hobbes. ‘No one lives there since the tenants were evicted and they can be dangerous. Even hill walkers give them a miss.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ I said. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘There are many perils up there for the unwary, but don’t worry, I’m not unwary.’

  I could feel the usual flocks of butterflies testing their wings in my stomach.

  ‘What sort of perils?’

  ‘Let me think. There are cliffs, caves, canyons, crevasses, screes, streams, gullies, rockslides, pitfalls, overhangs, marshes, icy waters, trackless wastes, mine workings and uncovered wells …’

  ‘Oh, great.’ The butterflies, having taken wing, were flapping madly.

  ‘… but probably the biggest danger is the weather, which can change within minutes and there’s precious little shelter, unless you know where to look.’

  ‘So, why are we going there?’

  ‘Because it seems like a good idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure really. It’s wild, beautiful in its way, and exciting. I used to wander there when I was a child.’

  ‘Wasn’t it dangerous?’

  ‘Not for me.’ He glanced towards Billy. ‘See that milepost? Turn immediately after it.’

  We turned into an overgrown lane, finding it blocked by two enormous boulders.

  ‘Well,’ said, Billy, braking, ‘I guess that’s about as far as I can take you.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Hobbes, getting out. ‘I’ll shift them.’

  Dregs went with him to lend moral support.

  Putting his shoulder to the smaller of the two rocks, Hobbes heaved. For a moment, nothing happened, except that his face grew redder and the veins in his neck bulged like hose pipes. Then a dandelion toppled, and the boulder rolled aside, leaving a deep hollow. As he turned to the other one, he removed his raincoat, and hung it on a bush.

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ asked Billy, freeing his feet from his wooden blocks.

  Hobbes, smiling, nodded. Billy joined him and, though he only came up to Hobbes’s waist, his expression was determined.

  ‘On three,’ said Hobbes. ‘Three!’

  They pushed and grunted. For a few seconds, I thought Hobbes had met his match and even considered offering my help. The boulder moved a fraction.

  ‘Heave!’ cried Hobbes and the boulder, ploughing a furrow through the stinging nettles, rolled to one side.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ said Billy, his round face puce like a plum. ‘I can squeeze through now.’

  ‘That,’ said Hobbes, wiping his brow on his handkerchief, ‘was fun. We need to go about five miles down the lane. That will take us to an abandoned manor.’

  Although I’d witnessed some incredible feats from him, this one took some beating, for the boulder was as tall as him and even broader, but, as he retrieved his coat, he frowned and dropped to his knees. I had a sudden fear he’d suffered a heart attack and jumped out to help, but he was crawling forward like a monstrous toad, sniffing the grass, and examining the track. He stood up, brushing dust from his knees, and looking puzzled.

  ‘It appears,’ he said, ‘that a heavy vehicle passed this way, sometime after last week’s rain. I can’t tell which way it was heading, but, whichever way, someone would have had to roll the boulders aside and then put them back. Why would anyone want to drive up here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but we’re going to.’

  ‘Very true,’ he said, as we got back into the car.

  The next couple of hundred metres took us over rutted, bumpy land but, just as I feared my brains would be shaken out, the going became much easier, the lane smooth and covered with short grass. I suspected the abundance of rabbits kept the vegetation down. They certainly kept Dregs interested. He made several frantic attempts to squeeze out of the window as white bobtails bounded away.

  The track ended at the manor, a long, single-storey building of grey rock, still showing traces of whitewash, though the roof had long since fallen in.

  ‘This is the end of the road,’ said Hobbes, as we stopped. ‘Thanks for the lift. Do you fancy a coffee or anything before you go? I can have the kettle on in no time.’

  ‘No,’ said Billy. ‘I’d better get back. I’m working this evening and Featherlight doesn’t like me being late.’

  We unpacked our gear and piled it by a wall. Billy turned the hearse about.

  ‘Have a great time, guys,’ he said, ‘and, when you need picking up, you’ve got my number. See you.’

  He drove away, leaving me with feelings of abandonment and panic. I wasn’t used to the wild and the mountains and moors seemed to be gathering around, threatening me with their vastness.

  ‘This old house belonged to the dowager Lady Payne,’ said Hobbes, chewing on a blade of grass. ‘I knew her well.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I never met her.’

  ‘Then how did you know her well?’

  ‘I used to draw water from it. I could do with a nice hot cup of tea and this dog will need a drink before we set off, so I’d better find it. It was over there, I think. The kettle and the mugs are in the black rucksack and the stove is in the grey one, if you wouldn’t mind getting them out.’

  Taking a jerry can and a length of rope from the pile, he strolled towards the old barn, shoved a heap of rusting, crumbling, corrugated iron out of the way and uncovered a round, flat stone, about the size of a dustbin lid. As I dug through the rucksacks, he slid the stone aside, peered into the hole, gave me a thumbs up and returned with the can full of water. Within a few minutes, we had tea to drink. Afterwards, while I rinsed the tin mugs and Dregs’s bowl, Hobbes sorted out the gear.

  ‘Right,’ he said, picking up the larger rucksack, ‘let’s get into the mountains.’

  6

  Within minutes, with the straps of the smaller rucksack digging into my shoulders that were still tender from the previous day’s hike, I was struggling to keep up as Hobbes led me into a pathless waste of rank grass, bracken and heather. The odd sparse, stunted gorse bush appeared to cower in the occasional dips and hollows, though what they were hiding from I couldn’t imagine. The sun was bright and I might even have been too warm, were it not for a gentle breeze whispering through the grass. Hobbes, striding along, was almost hidden beneath his massive grey rucksack and our supplies. He either didn’t believe in modern, lightweight tents, or hadn’t heard of them, for, bundled on top of his rucksack was a great, folded sheet of faded green canvas, a couple of heavy wooden poles, and a ball of tangled, thumb-thick ropes. At least he didn’t need to carry a mallet, for I’d seen how he could drive tent pegs into the stoniest ground with a few blows from his great, hairy fist. Although Dregs, much to his annoyance, had been saddled with panniers full of tins, he soon got used to them and bounded ahead, making barking forays in the general direction of rabbits. A tapestry of muddy brown, green and khaki, interspersed with startling yellow swathes of gorse, stretched before us and, away to our right, a tiny waterfall, splashing over a low black cliff, filled the air with rainbows.

  It wasn’t long before our path grew steeper and rougher. Now and again there were patches of bare, black rock, corrugated with deep cracks that Hobbes and Dregs took in their respective strides, while I had to scramble on hands and knees. Despite the breeze, I was soon sweating like a wrestler, and, despite having filled up with tea, my mouth was as dry as custard powder. My stomach began grumbling that it was way past lunchtime and I hoped Hobbes had brought something good to eat that wouldn’t take too long to prepare and that he’d stop soon – very soon. I had a horrible suspicion that Dregs’s panniers contained only dog food, which he would eat if sufficiently hungry, but which had little appeal to me.

  ‘Did you see that?’ asked Hobbes, pausing by a deformed and stunted thorn bush.

&nbs
p; ‘What?’

  ‘The fox.’

  ‘No.’

  I trudged after him, beginning to feel light headed with hunger as we reached the top of a ridge, with a narrow valley stretching below us, hemmed in by moorland and sheer cliffs, broken up by massive boulders. As we began the descent, I made up my mind to not get lost, for, although Hobbes might be able to find his way around this horrible wilderness, I was certain I couldn’t. A low-grade panic was building, forcing me forward, ensuring he never got too far ahead and, when he finally stopped and I caught up, I was panting and dripping. Apart from his load, he looked as if he’d just stepped from the office after a morning’s paperwork.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The red kite.’

  ‘No,’ I said, frustrated, but determined to keep my eyes skinned and to point something interesting out to him.

  ‘Never mind. We’ll stop here for lunch.’ He swung his kit to the ground.

  I wriggled free from my rucksack, enjoying the breeze, feeling my shirt sticking to my back. The day was somewhat cooler than it had been and the valley, to my eyes, was uninviting; bare, broken rock with now and again a whiff of stagnant water from a nasty, green bog at the bottom.

  ‘Is there a reason for stopping here?’ I asked, rummaging in my rucksack for my cagoule, already having had enough of the wind.

  ‘There’s fresh water.’

  ‘I can’t see any,’ I said, peevish with hunger, wrinkling my nose, ‘unless you mean that stinking stuff down there.’

  ‘No.’ He laughed, and said, ‘There’s a spring.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the cave.’

  ‘What cave?’ I asked.

  ‘This one,’ he said, dropping to his knees and crawling into what I’d taken to be a hummock, where there was a fissure just big enough for him to squeeze through.

  ‘Pass me the jerry can,’ he said, disappearing, leaving only his hand remaining in the light.