3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  I passed it, and can and Hobbes were gone. Although Dregs found the procedure most entertaining, he showed no inclination to follow and nor did I, for I’d had too many bad frights in dark places. Instead, I dug out the kettle, the stove, and a box of matches and waited, hoping Hobbes did not get himself lost or stuck. If my worst fears were realised, I would have to attempt a rescue, as I had no mobile phone and would undoubtedly get lost should I go looking for help. After a few minutes of silence, my stomach tightening with nerves, I dropped to my knees and stuck my head into the dark, narrow cave.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I yelled.

  There was no response, so, I crawled inside.

  ‘Hello!’ I cried, my voice muffled.

  ‘Are you shouting to me?’

  I jumped, headbutted the low ceiling and groaned. Puzzled, but relieved, I reversed into the daylight.

  ‘Umm … how did you get here?’

  ‘It’s like a labyrinth in there,’ said Hobbes. ‘I came out another way.’

  As I stood up, I considered punching him, and might have, had I believed it would hurt him more than it hurt me. Instead, I put the kettle on and, with a flourish like a stage magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he produced a large, brown paper parcel from the rucksack. Inside was bread, cheese, pickles and salad, and two of Mrs Goodfellow’s best china plates. I couldn’t help thinking that he’d really catch it if we broke one.

  I could barely restrain myself until it was time to eat and, as Hobbes passed me a plate, I fell to eating, like a wolf on the fold. Hobbes was more restrained, and Dregs was disappointed to get only water. The bread was fresh, crusty and fragrant, the Sorenchester cheese sweet and tangy, and the pickle pungent and perfect.

  Hobbes, having filled two mugs with tea and given me one, took a slurp from the other. ‘You’d better make the most of it. There’s a meat pie for supper and after that we’ll have to rely on what we can find or catch.’

  ‘What,’ I asked, staring at the desolate, empty landscape, ‘is there to eat around here?’

  ‘There are rabbits, hares, hedgehogs, stoats, fish, ducks and all sorts of roots and things. And there may still be wild strawberries, if we’re really lucky.’

  ‘But, how will we, umm … you catch them?’

  ‘Strawberries don’t usually require much catching,’ he said, smiling. ‘As for the others I will use stealth, cunning, and possibly a rock. If we’re unlucky, there are emergency rations in Dregs’s pannier.’

  ‘What are the chances we’ll need them?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Although his answer failed to reassure me, I experienced the sudden realisation that I didn’t not want to be there and that I would have hated giving up on the life adventurous. Sometimes, I doubted my own sanity, because when things became dark, dangerous and uncomfortable, as was frequent when Hobbes was around, I still wanted to be there. I had sometimes cursed myself for not sticking to safe, familiar ways, but not often.

  Having rested and eaten my fill, I was in a fairly cheerful mood as we set off again, finding the going far easier on my feet than yesterday’s road had been. It was hard to believe that had only been a day ago.

  ‘Where, exactly, are we heading?’ I asked breathlessly, having caught up.

  ‘Straddlingate.’

  ‘I know, but what is it? A camp site? Or a village?’

  ‘It’s a valley with an old quarry and some mine workings. It’s said there was gold in these here hills, long ago.’

  ‘Why are we going there in particular?’

  ‘Something, I’m not sure what, is drawing me back. Possibly, it’s because I always felt comfortable there, even though it can be a fearful place.’

  ‘Fearful? What d’you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Careful where you tread; that’s a bog asphodel and it’s quite rare.’

  Looking down, I avoided crushing a plant with small orangey capsules and smooth stems, but only by stepping into a patch of thick, stinking, bubbling mud.

  ‘Well done,’ said Hobbes, as I extricated myself. ‘Let’s get a move on.’

  As we strode deeper into the bleakness, he occasionally stooped to throw a stick for Dregs. Where Dregs had found a stick in such a desolate landscape was a mystery, but he was really in his element, his long legs making light work of the rough terrain.

  It was a lot later when I realised that Hobbes had distracted me from questioning him about Straddlingate. Still, I reasoned that the company I was in would keep me fairly safe.

  Hobbes stopped and pointed. ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The stoats.’

  ‘No.’

  He shrugged and carried on. I was annoyed with myself and feared he’d perceive me as a hopelessly unobservant clod.

  The land remained bleak and lonely until we crested another ridge and started heading into a valley, where the air was fresh and clean, scented with gorse and some sweet herb. At the far end was a small pool, fringed by broken reeds, its dark waters backed up by a rugged cliff. I was feeling strangely euphoric, as if I’d cast off all the cares of the world, even though I’d never felt so far from the comforts and security of civilization, and even the tiredness of my leg muscles seemed pleasurable. I speculated that perhaps I was, at heart, a mountain man. Still, I was grateful when Hobbes said we’d arrived, for even Dregs had run out of bounds by then.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he asked as I stopped.

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘Then why did you step in it?’

  My right foot was in the rotting, maggoty carcass of a crow or something. Its stench was such that even Dregs fled before it. I used a rock to prise it loose and finished the clean up on a tuft of heather.

  ‘We’ll camp down there,’ said Hobbes, pointing towards a spring, bubbling from the side of the valley and forming a small stream that trickled and twisted down to the pool, where a grey heron, hunched on the far side, ignored us.

  ‘This,’ he said, still appearing as fresh as he’d been at the start, ‘is Stradlingate. Let’s get the tent up.’

  Dropping my rucksack, I sprawled on a flat, sun-warmed rock and let him get on with it, for he knew what he was doing, and I would only have been in his way and got tangled up in all the lines. I did, however, pick up the bag of pegs, ready to hand to him, while Dregs, who believed Hobbes was being attacked by a vast canvas monster, growled encouragement and attacked any flapping edges. Yet, even with Dregs’s contribution, it was not long before the tent was secure in the shelter of a gorse bush and Hobbes was punching in the final peg.

  Although I couldn’t stand up straight in it, there was plenty of room for all three of us. I just hoped the musty, dusty smell would go away. Dregs, accepting the transformation from monster to shelter with equanimity, lay down and went to sleep as soon as his blanket had been unrolled. I wasn’t surprised that, instead of modern lightweight, micro-fibre sleeping bags, Hobbes had brought woollen rugs, which we piled on a pair of rubber-backed canvass groundsheets.

  ‘That’s yours,’ he said, pointing to the left, ‘and this is mine.’

  ‘Will it be warm enough?’ I asked. ‘It must get pretty nippy at night.’

  ‘We’ll be fine … probably,’ said Hobbes. ‘I doubt the weather will turn bad for a day or two.

  ‘I fancy a bit of a run up the Beacon. D’you want to come?’

  ‘I think I’ve had quite enough exercise today,’ I said, yawning. ‘Where is the Beacon?’

  Taking me outside, he pointed to a distant peak that rose high above the ridges. It was conical, covered with browning bracken on the steep sides, with bare rock as it reached the domed top, reminding me of Friar Tuck’s tonsure. The sun, still bright and hot, was over the summit.

  ‘It looks a long way off,’ I said, glad I’d chickened out.

  ‘Not really,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ll be back by dusk.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘When it starts to get dark.’
/>   He left, his great loping strides taking him along the valley and then, via a cleft, towards the peak. I watched until he was out of sight and joined Dregs, who was snoring gently and twitching on his blanket. With a yawn, I lay down on top of my rugs, it being too warm inside to cover up, and rested my eyes for a few moments.

  I awoke to Dregs’s low growling, though that wasn’t what had woken me. He was outside, bristling and ill at ease, and I understood, for something felt wrong, though I couldn’t put my finger on quite what. I got up, surprised how gloomy the day had grown, and shivered, wishing Hobbes was back. Then I felt it, a weird sensation, an odd vibration, passing through my feet, up my body into my head. Though I couldn’t have explained why, I decided it was coming from some distance, but as I left the tent, it stopped. In the distance, I could see Hobbes jogging towards us. Dregs rushed to greet him.

  ‘Did you feel that?’ I asked when they were back.

  Hobbes nodded.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I remember something like it when I was a boy.’

  I had never envisaged Hobbes as a boy. He gave the impression of having arrived fully formed, although he had made occasional remarks about his childhood, particularly about Auntie Elsie and Uncle Jack, who’d adopted him and guided him through his troubled youth. From what I’d gathered, he’d caused much of the trouble.

  ‘It felt,’ he said, ‘like machinery in the mines.’

  ‘Does that mean someone’s mining?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘but I’d expect to see some signs.’

  ‘Back when we left the road, you reckoned a heavy vehicle had been along before us.’

  ‘That is true,’ he said, ‘but it seems unlikely they’d restart mining. They were all closed in the nineteenth century.’

  ‘Then it’s a mystery,’ I said, with masterful insight.

  ‘It is,’ said Hobbes with a laugh, ‘but it’s nothing to do with us. All the land round here is private and what the owner does on it is his business.’

  ‘What do you mean private land? We’re not trespassing are we?’

  ‘Only in the legal sense,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘What other sense is there?’

  ‘Moral, or ethical. This whole area used to be common land, land that many families depended on. Then Sir Rodney Payne enclosed it and took it for himself, but his right to do so is debatable. What is not debatable is that Sir Rodney used considerable force and the enclosure was, in effect, robbery with violence.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Uncle Jack told me. His father used to have a small farm, grazing sheep on Blacker Knob, until Sir Rodney threw him and his family out.’

  ‘So, if he hadn’t, would the farm have come to you eventually?’

  ‘No. Uncle Jack was a younger son and, back then, inherited property went to the eldest.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Late in the eighteenth century. Sir Rodney was widely regarded as the most odious man in the county and the same family still owns it. Most of them are no better than Sir Rodney, if the stories are to be believed. The point is, I have no compunction in being here. The Payne family may have the law on its side, but it does not have justice and, besides, we won’t be doing any harm; there’s nothing we could damage. Furthermore, we have the legal right to roam these days.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Umm … when is supper?’

  He laughed. ‘You have a talent for getting back to what is really important. Supper’s ready as soon as you’ve made tea and I’ve got the pie out.’

  I filled the kettle and set it to heat on the stove, worried that there only appeared to be one gas cylinder, but hoping he had a plan for when it was used up; although he might not have had a problem with raw stoat, I certainly did and even Dregs preferred cooked meals. Still, that was a worry for later and the sight of the huge meat pie set my mouth watering. I made tea, Hobbes said grace and sliced the pie into generous chunks. We sat at a long, smooth rock that made a useful table, stuffing ourselves. Afterwards, he produced a bag of apples and, munching one, I began to feel comfortable and confident. The sun had long ago dipped beneath the Beacon, the temperature was dropping and night was falling fast. Hobbes lit a candle lantern, our only light.

  ‘What are we going to do tonight?’ I asked, hoping there’d be a cosy pub within easy walking distance, but fearing the appearance of being in the middle of nowhere was no illusion.

  ‘We’re going to wash up,’ said Hobbes, ‘and then I’m going to turn in. You can do what you like.’

  ‘I hoped we might grab a beer or something.’

  ‘The nearest pub is in Blackcastle. It’s about eight miles due east of here. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘OK … Which way is east?’

  ‘Over there.’ He pointed. ‘Roughly opposite to where the sun went down. Of course, to get there you’ll have to cross Dead Man’s Bluff.’

  ‘I might give it a miss tonight.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  As soon as we’d washed up in cold water and stacked the plates to drip dry, he retired into the tent.

  Wrapping my jacket around me, I lay on the flat rock, gazing at the stars. I’d never seen such abundance. Hobbes had once tried to teach me about them, displaying a vast theoretical and practical knowledge, but astronomy was way over my head. I could, at least, recognise the moon, half of which was rising, making the mountains shine with a pale, silvery light. Once or twice I noticed the flickering silhouettes of bats and, faraway, an owl screeched, emphasising the quietness and the isolation and filling me with a sense of melancholy and loneliness that was almost exhilarating. Sprawled, relaxed, contemplating the cosmos, I thought deep thoughts and pondered much on the meaning of life, until Dregs started licking himself. The mood shattered, I relieved myself in a gorse bush and decided to turn in. Anyway, I was starting to feel cold.

  Hobbes, fast asleep, didn’t stir as I snuggled into my pile of rugs. I was sure the ground was too hard and rocky and the rugs nowhere near thick enough to allow me to sleep, especially as Dregs had decided to lie on my feet.

  When I awoke it was morning, and Hobbes and Dregs were already up. It took me a while to join them, because my back was rigid and my neck stiff and besides, it was warm where I was. Yet I had to move sometime, so, with a sigh, I crawled out into bright daylight and got to my feet, grunting good morning, stretching and yawning. Hobbes, having made a fire from old bits of gorse, was filleting several large trout.

  ‘Where did you get those from?’ I asked.

  ‘Over there.’ He pointed down the valley to the pool.

  ‘Great. How did you catch them?’

  ‘With difficulty, because they didn’t want to be caught. I think they were nervous of the heron.’

  When he started frying them, along with a handful of green leaves he’d found, the air was filled with delicious scents; they tasted even better. Fresh fish cooked and eaten in fresh air really piqued the appetite.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ I said, stuffing the last bit into my mouth.

  ‘Yes. This is good living. There’s plenty to eat around here and I doubt I’ll have much trouble at this time of year. It’s not so good in the depths of winter, though.’

  ‘We won’t be here that long, will we?’

  ‘No. At least, I hope not, but it is October and the weather up here can change within minutes. Still, it should stay warm and sunny for the next few days. After that, I’m not so sure.’ He sniffed the air and glanced at the sky. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Do you think bad weather’s on the way?’

  ‘Maybe, but let’s enjoy the good stuff while we can.’

  Having never gone camping in really bad weather before, I wasn’t much looking forward to the prospect, but Hobbes didn’t concern himself with future problems that might not even arise. It struck me as a good way of living, one that I wished I could follow. Unfortunately, I had a tendency to worry, despite having lear
ned that the worrying about a dreaded event was often far worse than the event itself. This wasn’t always the case, for I had another tendency to drop myself into messes far deeper than I’d anticipated.

  After we’d eaten and I’d scrubbed the dishes, I asked a foolish question.

  ‘What do we do about washing ourselves?’

  The pool was cool and clear and, once the shock of being thrown into it had passed, refreshing.

  The next two days were glorious. We’d turn in as the light faded and wake early. I made it to the top of Beacon Peak, where I sat stunned by the vastness of the landscape as the morning mist dispersed. The hills looked pristine, as if human kind had never intruded, and it felt like we’d awoken into the first dawn of a clean, new world. When we got back down, Hobbes, naked and as hairy as a bear, his beard grown shaggy already, would plunge headfirst into the lake, often emerging with an eel or a trout between his jaws. Later, he would gut them, clean them and fry them for breakfast. The rest of the day, we would walk over the ridges and, despite Dregs’s attentions, Hobbes would hunt for rabbits and hares, or scratch around for herbs and roots. He discovered a hunched, arthritic old apple tree, a remnant, so he said, of an ancient farmhouse, and roasted some of the ripe fruit on a sheet of corrugated iron that he unearthed in a cave. We ate like lords and never had to eat a stoat or open our emergency rations, though we had to drink our tea without milk.

  By my reckoning, it was on the third day when our morning walk took us to Blacker Knob, a tall peak, where near the top, a pile of rocks might long ago have been a cottage. That was where our camping trip took a dark turn.

  7

  Hobbes was chasing a hare and, since he appeared to be enjoying his workout, I found myself somewhere sheltered to sit and watch. Dregs, for once not bounding after him, started barking, and something in the tone suggested urgency. I stood up, the wind blustering and raising goose pimples, and went to see what was bothering him. Bristling, excited and ill at ease, he was sniffing round a pile of small rocks and pawing at something.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  A smooth, round, white object, a bit like a child’s ball, rolled towards me. Bending, I picked it up and was nearly sick. I had a human skull in my hand and, although my first instinct was to drop it, I couldn’t let go. I stared into the empty eye sockets.