3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘But,’ I said, ‘what about his fractured skull?’

  ‘Your dog probably did that when he dug it out.’

  ‘He barely touched it,’ I said with a glance at Dregs, who was innocently sitting by Mrs Duckworth, wagging his tail.

  Sergeant Beer shrugged. ‘Bones become fragile with exposure to the elements and there are a lot of elements up here. Aren’t I right, constable?’

  ‘Well, yes, Sarge. Blacker Knob is reputed to have some of the worst weather in the country. That’s one of the reasons no one comes up here. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem so bad,’ I said.

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Sergeant Beer, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been here when the winds come up sudden, like, from the south-west. It can be terrible and there are many tales of people dying in the old days. Old Walt, who runs the Badger’s, told me that when he was a child, he was up the Beacon. The wind was really strong and he saw this little fluffy cloud blowing towards him. It knocked him down. It turned out to be a waterlogged sheep. Not sure I believe him. Old Walt’s not quite right in the head since then.’

  He glanced towards the bones. ‘The thing is, it’s still dangerous up here, so I’d take care if I were you, Mr Caplet, because my feet reckon the weather’s turning. I hope the chopper gets here soon, because I want to be getting back before it starts. I’d strongly advise you to get out of here.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, trying to look resolute and intrepid while my insides quaked.

  Still, I’d have Hobbes with me and was confident he’d know what to do, though I had some concern that his concept of bad weather might differ from mine. I wondered where he was, for although I’d kept an eye out, I’d seen no further sign of him. That was probably unsurprising, but I was puzzled that Dregs, who had curled up at Mrs Duckworth’s feet, had shown no indication that he was anywhere near.

  I got to my feet, looking around casually as if admiring the view and, to be fair to Blacker Knob, it was picturesque in a rugged and bleak sort of way and it was difficult to see why it had such a bad reputation. It appeared to my, admittedly inexperienced, eyes to be excellent walking country, for any who liked such exercise. I wasn’t yet convinced I was one of them, for although I did appreciate fresh air and scenic views, I wasn’t so keen on the actual walking bit. My legs were already tired and I had a horrible suspicion I’d have to go back to Blackcastle to make a statement or something, and I’d bet there would be no room for me in the helicopter. Turning up my collar, I sat back down. The wind was strengthening and I was sure I felt a spot of rain on my cheek.

  I shivered. ‘How long will we have to wait?’

  Sergeant Beer shrugged. ‘As long as we must.’

  ‘They said it’d be here within the hour,’ said Constable Jones.

  ‘As long as it’s here before the rain,’ said Mrs Duckworth.

  I prepared for a long wait that never happened. The helicopter arrived within minutes, its downdraught showering us with debris and dust. I held my hands to my ears and half closed my eyes until it landed and the rotors had slowed to a standstill. A door opened and a man and a woman in white coveralls emerged. Sergeant Beer stepped forward to greet them.

  ‘You two had better stay here,’ said Constable Jones, joining the newcomers.

  I nodded, having grown accustomed to keeping out of the way when Hobbes was investigating. Mrs Duckworth, on the other hand, was not so experienced and, fearing she’d get up and interfere, I thought I should try to take her mind off what was about to happen.

  ‘Umm …’ I said by way of a start, ‘what do you do?’

  She turned towards me, frowning. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I work. How about you?’

  That was a poser. ‘I used to be a reporter for a newspaper, but I’m sort of freelance now.’

  ‘I had some experience of reporters when Hugh went missing. They didn’t strike me as very nice and I couldn’t get rid of them.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I said, nodding.

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘I really do. We had loads of reporters outside when … I mean … umm … What I mean is, I’ve seen them in action.’ Again, I’d nearly let slip too much and it was just lucky I’d still got my wits about me and could cover it up. I continued. ‘I never got the hang of pestering people. That’s probably why they sacked me. Umm … one of the reasons anyway. I wasn’t very good.’

  She laughed. ‘I can believe that.’

  Her response, better than I’d expected, came across as only slightly hostile and I ventured another question: ‘Have you lived round here all your life?’

  ‘No, I only came to Blackcastle because of Hugh.’

  ‘Because of me?’

  ‘Not you, Hugh!’ She laughed again, this time genuinely amused. ‘Yes, his family were originally from these parts and we moved here when he found a job. Things were fine until he discovered some documents linking his family to sheep farming and quarrying and got obsessed by researching them. I must say that I’ll be glad to leave. I’ve never liked the place.’

  ‘You’re moving then?’

  ‘I’ve got myself a job in a museum miles away from here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That really isn’t your business.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Sorry.’

  ‘I intend to put all of this behind me,’ she said. ‘I see it as moving on mentally as well as physically and I do not intend to allow what’s happened to spoil my future. That’s why I’m only telling family and friends where I’m going. You are not the only one who can withhold information, Mr Caplet.’

  After this exchange, we sat in near silence, watching what little of the action we could see, which wasn’t much.

  After no more than an hour, the two white-clad people loaded a black plastic bag into the helicopter and, following a brief discussion with Sergeant Beer and Constable Jones, climbed inside. As soon as the policemen retreated, the helicopter took off, turned slowly, and departed into the darkening sky.

  Sergeant Beer walked back, looking glum. ‘They’re off,’ he said, ‘and they wouldn’t take me. We’d better start moving before this storm hits.’

  As if to reinforce his words, a spatter of rain propelled by a squally wind struck.

  ‘Do you need me to go with you?’ I asked, hoping the answer would be ‘no’.

  I was pleasantly surprised when that turned out to be the response.

  ‘There’s no need, sir,’ said Sergeant Beer. ‘We have your details and can contact you should we require anything further. I doubt we will though. This looks to me like an unfortunate accident and Forensics agreed. But, thanks for your help, sir. It’s much appreciated. We don’t get too many cases out here, but it’s still satisfying to tick one off the list. Enjoy the rest of your holiday, but seriously, I would advise you to get off the tops soon. These hills really can be dangerous and besides, you are technically trespassing. Good day, sir.’

  With that they left me. I watched them go, disappointed Mrs Duckworth hadn’t acknowledged me, other than by a single, cold nod. I didn’t blame her, for it’s not every day a woman has to identify her husband’s skeleton and I imagined she’d found it somewhat distracting. Maybe as distracting as I’d found her.

  ‘Well,’ I told Dregs, ‘we’re on our own now. I suppose we should find Hobbes.’

  Dregs put his head to one side.

  Then, remembering that I’d promised to buy a newspaper, I groaned and decided to return to Blackcastle anyway. Dregs, refusing to come, trotted away, heading back to the tent, I supposed.

  9

  Drizzle stung the back of my neck and made me shiver, but at least there was shelter in the lee of Blacker Knob as I descended. Despite my leg weariness, I was making good time, though the sky had darkened to the colour of the slates on the roofs in Blackcastle.

  It wasn’t long before punching rain took over from the dri
zzle and my tweed jacket and trousers, so good at keeping out the wind, proved to have the absorbency claimed by the manufacturers of certain brands of kitchen towel. Before long I was drenched, weighed down, as if in a suit of armour, and with icy trickles running down my legs and back. It was like being under a waterfall, except the rain seemed to be falling parallel to the ground. I could barely see and my feet slipped several times. Twice I was nearly blown over. I needed shelter, and quickly, and could have kicked myself for not heeding the warnings. The Blacker Mountains were, indeed, dangerous.

  Giving up on any idea of fetching the newspaper, I turned around, heading back to Blacker Knob, hoping I’d be able to find the tent from there. I hadn’t gone far when a white stick slalomed past on the torrent. I tried to convince myself that even I couldn’t get lost between stakes.

  It turned out that I could, and after perhaps five minutes I turned to retrace my steps, hoping to find where I’d been, but very soon, unable to see much of anything, I had to accept that I was utterly lost and in dead trouble. Failing to think of a brilliant plan, I turned again, heading upwards, hoping to stumble upon Blacker Knob, because from there I would, no doubt, be able to find the tent. I hoped so. I really hoped so.

  Walking against the flow of water, I kept losing my footing on the sparse grass, which might just as well have been oiled for all the grip it offered. Reaching a rocky area which was a little less slippery, I followed it, moving with renewed confidence until it became suddenly steeper, forcing me to crawl on hands and knees. If anything the storm was intensifying, and it felt like marbles were being hurled into my eyes, making them feel bruised and sore. Blinking, I groped forward, because I didn’t know what else to do, having lost all chance of finding Blacker Knob, but hoping still to chance upon some sort of shelter.

  From somewhere, I found the strength to keep going, clinging onto hope, trying to believe Hobbes would find me and trying to choke off the insidious growth of despair. Then, I was no longer climbing, but sliding, horribly aware there was nothing in front of me.

  A roaring wind, blowing full in my face, swallowed my cries and, although I scrabbled, grabbing at anything that might be solid, I plunged into nothingness. Yet even as I dropped, my left hand, by no conscious action, seized a sturdy root or something and I was left swinging by one arm. This was the moment, so experience told me, when Hobbes would put in an appearance. He didn’t.

  Sometimes I’d been able to make quick decisions and I made one then; I was not going to let go. Still, the weight of my sodden suit, plus the slipperiness of my hands, conspired against my decision and I began to slide, until somehow I managed to get a grip with my other hand. For a moment I was euphoric, a bizarre sense of relief flooding my nervous system, before my predicament struck home. I was dangling over what I assumed was a precipice, and my situation was not helped by a gush of water that seemed determined to sluice out my mouth. I had to act and, fuelled by adrenalin, using sheer muscle power, something I’d never believed I possessed, I hauled myself up, hand over hand, my shoulders agonising, until, just before my strength failed, with one final, valiant effort, I dragged myself over a lip of rock and lay face down, gasping like a landed fish and just as wet.

  After a while, the heat my efforts had generated leaking away, my teeth began chattering, reminding me of the wind-up ones sold in joke shops, and making me laugh like a madman. As the hysteria subsided and I pulled myself together, congratulating myself on a lucky escape, I got wearily to my feet and tried to get my bearings.

  A sudden, huge blast of wind caught me off guard, blowing me over the edge.

  Too surprised to react, even to scream, I plummeted, fearing and expecting a bone-shattering encounter with sharp rocks, but, instead, I squelched into soft mud up to the waist. Although for a few moments, despite the bad-egg stink I’d let loose, I considered myself fortunate, it wasn’t long before I had to reconsider. I was stuck and struggling to get free only seemed to drive me deeper into the mire. The storm showed no signs of abating and I was getting colder. The only good thing was that I didn’t sink any further if I stayed still. It wasn’t much of a good thing.

  ‘Help!’ I yelled as loudly as I’d ever shouted, realising my chances of being heard in that wilderness, in that wind, were infinitesimal.

  Nevertheless, I wasn’t going anywhere, so, every few minutes, I unleashed a lung-busting bellow in the hope that Hobbes, or anybody, might hear me, pull me out and take me somewhere warm and dry, somewhere I could have a hot drink and something to eat. I still hadn’t had my lunch. At the back of my mind a terrifying thought was growing; no one was going to hear me. I was going to die of hypothermia, unless I struggled and drowned first.

  As time passed, my cries became weaker and less frequent, while the invading cold overcame all resistance. My throat was sore, even though, by tilting my head, I could swallow rain, and I was exhausted and hopeless. Although I desperately wanted to lie down and rest, I was stuck in a standing position, but even so, my head lolled, my chin rested on my chest, and I fell into an odd sort of semi-conscious doze.

  ‘Hello, dear.’

  I raised my head. A small, yellow wigwam was addressing me, in Mrs Goodfellow’s voice. Could hypothermia cause hallucinations, I wondered?

  ‘Are you having a nice paddle?’

  ‘No,’ I said, wondering why I was in conversation with a wigwam, ‘I’m stuck.’

  ‘Then I suppose we ought to pull you out.’

  At least the hallucination was talking sense, but I could see a problem: ‘I’m stuck fast,’ I said, ‘and you’re too small a wigwam to do much good.’

  ‘Nonsense, dear. Billy will help me.’

  ‘He’s a good man, that Billy, but he’s in Sorenchester.’

  ‘No, mate. I’m here.’ The wigwam had swapped to Billy’s voice.

  ‘Clever wigwam,’ I murmured, which was difficult as my teeth were chattering again and my eyelids were too heavy to keep open.

  Both of the wigwam’s voices spoke, there was a racking pain in my shoulders, a pop, and a sudden sense of release.

  ‘It is very strange,’ I said to myself, ‘that I feel warm and the rain has stopped.’

  I still couldn’t move and thought the bog still had me until, realising I was lying down, I opened my eyes. For reasons I was unable to fathom, I was on my back, swaddled in blankets, as immobile as an Egyptian mummy. The rock ceiling above me was flickering red. Something smelt good, making my mouth water.

  ‘Where am I?’ I asked of no one in particular.

  ‘In one of the old mine workings,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Stiff … and hungry,’ I said, turning my head to see her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Billy and I pulled you out. You were stuck fast and getting dozy.’

  ‘Thank you. I … umm … seem to remember a yellow wigwam talking to me in your voice.’

  She laughed. ‘I was wearing Mr Goodfellow’s old cycle cape. It came in very handy on such a wild night. It kept the rain off both of us.’

  ‘Both of you? Oh, yes, I remember, Billy was there. That’s why the wigwam had two voices.’

  ‘That’s right, dear. He drove me here.’

  ‘But why? I mean … what are you doing here?’

  ‘We came to let the old fellow know the press has moved on and that he can come home when he wishes.’

  ‘How did you know where to find us?’

  ‘You’d better have something to eat and drink before we talk any more. Sit up.’

  ‘I can’t. The blankets are too tight.’

  Leaning across, she tugged a corner, freeing me. I sat up, dislodging a hot water bottle in the shape of a deformed hippopotamus, and looked around. A brisk fire was burning in the entrance and there was a pile of twisted, dark logs by the far wall. Outside it was pitch black, the wind still blustering and howling, the rain still pounding the rocks. There was no sign of Hobbes, or Billy, or Dregs, but I was far more interested in the pot bubbl
ing on the fire, which was sending out tendrils of steam and, more to the point, enticing, savoury, warm smells.

  Mrs Goodfellow ladled out a bowl of what turned out to be stew, stuck a spoon in it and handed it to me. I stuffed myself until there was nowhere left to be stuffed, almost crying with delight, and it was only when I was on to my second bowl that I could really appreciate the flavours: vegetables, stock and a variety of meats expertly blended into one delightful whole. My ordeal almost began to feel worth enduring for such a reward. It was another of the old girl’s masterpieces.

  When I finished, she took the bowl away and handed me a mug of tea and, by the time I’d drained it, my spirits were quite restored, though my arms and legs were heavy and aching.

  ‘That was wonderful. Thank you … and thanks for getting me out of that horrible bog.’

  ‘You’re welcome, though I might have struggled without Billy’s help. He crawled over the top and prised you out with an old pit prop, while I pulled on a rope. You came out with a slurp and a cloud of stinky marsh gas. At least that’s what he said it was.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ll thank him when I see him. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s with the old fellow and Dregs. They’ve gone for a walk.’

  ‘Out there?’ I said, with a glance at the storm. ‘But, it’s horrible.’

  ‘No, in here.’

  ‘I don’t understand’

  ‘They’ve gone into the mine.’

  ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

  ‘That’s how the old fellow likes it.’

  ‘I suppose, but … umm … why does he want to go for a walk in a mine?’

  ‘He’s interested in mining.’

  ‘Is he? He’s never mentioned it.’

  ‘He’s interested in many things that he never mentions, unless he has a reason.’