3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘I thought he was only interested in crime and art … and music … and films … and … and aubergines.’

  ‘Oh, no, dear. He likes zoology and astronomy and gastronomy and history and politics and economics and geology and rheology and theology and agriculture and oceanography and sport and …’

  ‘Enough!’ I said. ‘I get the point.’

  ‘That’s why he’s so interesting.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s why. But, tell me, how did you find me?’

  ‘We were looking for your campsite when we heard shouting.’

  ‘I was lucky. These hills are huge and you might not have come anywhere near.’

  ‘Well, dear,’ she said, ‘I expected he’d stay somewhere around Stradlingate, because that’s what he usually did when he came up here. I think it comforts him.’

  ‘I’m not comfortable,’ I said, shivering as a blast of wind howled outside and made the fire spark.

  ‘Shall I adjust your blanket, dear?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean this place … this whole area … there’s something wrong with it. It spooks me, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not really, dear. It is wild and lonely, but it’s beautiful in its own way.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, doubtfully, ‘but Blackcastle is the pits.’

  ‘It was quite prosperous long ago, but it’s fallen on hard times since the Paynes stole the land.’

  ‘The Paynes? I saw a bloke called Payne today … Sir Gerald. I didn’t like him.’

  ‘There aren’t many round here have a good word for the Paynes, especially the current crop.’

  ‘I guess,’ I said, ‘it’s the old story of the aristocracy trampling the peasants underfoot.’

  ‘Not really. It’s odder than that, according to Roger Jolly’s Pirate Miscellany.’

  ‘What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s a very old book and very rare, because the Paynes tried to destroy all the copies. A few have survived and the old fellow has one. I imagine it’s valuable.’

  ‘I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘No, dear, he keeps it in a strongbox in the attic.’

  ‘Tell me about the Paynes,’ I said, stretching out my legs.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, ‘late in the seventeenth century, a child was born to a small farmer who scratched a bare living on Blacker Beacon. Such a life was not for Greville, who ran away when he was twelve and joined the navy. Being a bright, active lad, he did well, until he was wounded during the Wars of the Spanish Succession.’

  I nodded wisely, pretending I was familiar with the history.

  ‘He lost an eye,’ she continued, ‘and while recuperating met Edward Teach.’

  I must have looked blank, because she explained.

  ‘Better known as Blackbeard the pirate?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said.

  ‘When Greville met him, he was still a privateer, but, when the war ended, he took up piracy. Greville became mate of his ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge, and prospered, until Blackbeard shot him during a dispute about dried peas. Greville, however, was made of tough stuff and survived.

  ‘He came home with enough wealth to buy a small farm, but was not a success, until he discovered gold and began mining.’

  ‘So, the Paynes’ money came from piracy and gold mining.’

  ‘In part, dear, but his fortune bought power and influence and after he performed some small service for King George the Second, he was made a baronet. He was generally well liked, or at least tolerated, by local folk.’

  ‘When did people turn against the Paynes?’

  ‘His son, Sir Rodney, was a greedy and devious man, who inherited the estate and made use of the Inclosure Act to acquire land over which he had no rights. Ever since, the Paynes have been a blight on local people, although Gerald’s father did try to make some sort of amends. Unfortunately, Sir Gerald reversed most of his father’s improvements.’

  ‘A bad family.’

  ‘On the whole, dear.’

  ‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘how long the others will be.’

  Mrs Goodfellow shrugged. ‘I doubt they’ll be long. I’ll put the kettle on again.’

  As the wind outside howled with increased volume, I snuggled into my blankets and looked forward to a fresh cup of tea. It had been a long and trying day and I’d been incredibly lucky to survive. I wondered whether Sergeant Beer might have been correct about Hugh Duckworth’s death; a storm such as the one raging outside could kill a man so easily, and perhaps he had just been caught out by its suddenness. It could have been that he’d just run out of luck, and I couldn’t help feeling he must have used up a fair amount in attracting such a fine woman as Mrs Duckworth. Though she’d, perhaps unsurprisingly, been cool and distant, she’d still displayed flashes of compassion and passion that made her very appealing. Besides, she wasn’t at all bad looking and her soft brown eyes were lovely. I couldn’t deny having been attracted to her, which was a bit off in the circumstances. Not that it mattered, for I wouldn’t see her again.

  Something, beside the wind, was howling, something becoming louder, something coming from inside. It was an echoing, confusing, almost musical sound, rising and falling, with voices in it.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, trying not to sound too nervous.

  Mrs Goodfellow poured steaming water into a teapot and stood upright. ‘It’s the lads coming back.’

  As the eerie noise drew nearer, it became apparent that Dregs was making the howling as he backed up the rich, if raucous, baritone of Hobbes and Billy’s reedy treble. The echoes distorted everything, producing a weird, twisted, pulsing beat and it was a long time before I could make out the words: ‘Heigh-ho, heigh ho’.

  Standing up to greet them, discovering I was naked, I clutched at the blankets and wrapped them around me like a toga. Yet I was deceived by the acoustics, for it must have been five minutes before they appeared round a bend.

  Dregs, abandoning his backing vocals, charged, nearly knocking me down in his eagerness to say ‘hello’. I could only think that he was trying to make amends for his earlier desertion, though I had to admit, he’d shown far more sense than I had.

  ‘Hiya,’ said Billy.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine, now,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I expect you boys will be wanting a cup of tea and a bite to eat,’ said Mrs Goodfellow.

  About half an hour later, Hobbes wiped his lips and rose from the rock on which he’d been sitting down to eat. ‘That was delicious, thanks, lass,’ he said, throwing another log on the fire and staring out into the dripping darkness. ‘This weather is set for the night, so we’d better make the most of it and get some sleep. It’ll be better in the morning.’

  ‘It’s a good job you brought everything in here.’ said Billy. ‘I wouldn’t fancy going out in it.’

  ‘There’d be nothing left,’ said Hobbes. ‘The tent would have been torn to shreds and the contents scattered over the hillside.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ I asked, bursting to know.

  ‘We have been exploring the mine,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘I know, but why? And weren’t you scared of getting lost? Or of a cave-in, or something?’

  Hobbes grinned. ‘Which question shall I answer first?’

  ‘The first one.’

  ‘I wanted to see if there was any evidence of renewed mining.’

  ‘Was there?’

  ‘Not as such, but people have been working on the third level. There was some powerful new drilling equipment but nothing for rock crushing or cutting.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re just getting ready for mining,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps. As for your other questions, I wasn’t afraid of getting lost because I remember these old workings from way back and many of these tunnels have been here for centuries without coming down, so the chances of one falling when we were passing were re
mote. I’m going to have a lie down.’

  Yawning, he stretched himself out by the entrance, his feet towards the fire, his head resting on his hands. Dregs, who’d been allowed to finish the stew and was looking very satisfied, slumped beside him and, within a few minutes, both were snoring gently.

  Mrs Goodfellow, perched on a rock, was deep in thought, planning breakfast I hoped. Billy, having washed and stacked our dishes, came and sat next to me, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders.

  ‘Wotcha,’ he said. ‘It’s been puzzling me. How did you end up right in the middle of the bog?’

  I told the tale of my ordeal, grateful for his interest, for I’d been a little hurt no one had asked. Although I might have embellished things a little, attempting to present myself in a slightly more heroic, slightly less idiotic light, it didn’t seem to work. Billy, having started chuckling near the beginning of my saga, was rolling round on the floor by the end. I hadn’t realised how callous he was, and I would have expected more from Mrs G, who I noticed wiping away tears of mirth. I forgave her on account of the stew and Billy on account of getting me out the bog. It was big of me.

  Sometime later, I fell asleep.

  Cold, clinging, stinking mud was sucking me down, drowning me. I yelled, waking myself up and finding the fire had burned low, though it was still glowing and throwing out heat.

  ‘Bad dream?’ asked Hobbes, who was standing in the entrance, staring inwards. Dregs, at his feet, had his head on one side as if listening.

  ‘Umm … yes,’ I said as my senses woke up.

  I could make out a throbbing hum on the very edge of hearing.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  ‘A machine. I’ll take a look.’

  ‘Shall I come, too?’ I asked, feeling I should show willing, despite my fear of deep, dark tunnels.

  He shook his head. ‘No, you’d better keep guard here.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, as if reluctantly sacrificing adventure on the altar of duty, though, at the time, I would have given my breakfast to avoid going.

  He strode off into the darkness, Dregs keeping pace a few steps behind, and they were soon out of sight. For a while, I could hear the faint clicks of the dog’s toe nails, but nothing of Hobbes. It still amazed me that he could move more silently than a cat when he wished. Then all I could hear was the distant hum and the occasional crackle from the fire.

  Getting up, gripping my blanket against the cool, damp air, I walked over to the fire and threw on a couple of logs. They caught almost immediately and I warmed my hands, looking out into the night, where the storm, as Hobbes had predicted, had blown itself out, leaving only a soft, cool breeze and the occasional spatter of fine drizzle. The nearly-full moon, getting low on the horizon, lit up ragged tails of shredded clouds and an owl yelped in the distance. I shivered and leant against the wall, pulling the blanket over my head and standing guard and, although I wasn’t sure what I was guarding against, I intended doing a good job.

  I must have fallen asleep where I was standing, sliding down the wall to sprawl on the hard, stony ground, still wrapped in my blanket, because I awoke with bright sunlight flooding in. Outside, I could hear Mrs Goodfellow and Billy making breakfast. Unwrapping myself, I got up, got dressed in my spare clothes and stepped into the morning.

  The hills had forgotten their dark rage of the previous night and the sun’s gentle warmth fell on my face. I smiled, blinking as my eyes adjusted. Billy was scowling with concentration as he poured boiling water into the teapot and Mrs Goodfellow was heating a frying pan.

  ‘Good morning, dear,’ she said as I yawned. ‘You have lovely teeth.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, although they felt in urgent need of a vigorous brushing. ‘Where’s Hobbes?’

  ‘I expect he’s taken the dog for a walk. He was up before us.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, remembering. ‘He got up in the night to investigate a funny noise down the mine. I do hope he’s alright.’

  ‘I’m sure he will be,’ said Mrs Goodfellow.

  I nodded, though I couldn’t rid myself of a nagging worry. What if he had got lost? Or trapped? Who was going to search for him? Mrs Goodfellow, soothingly, began frying bacon and eggs, as I fretted.

  Then Dregs appeared, bounding over Blacker Ridge, running down towards us, with Hobbes loping into view a moment later, a bulging hessian sack bouncing on his shoulder. Dregs greeted us in his usual exuberant fashion and we were still trying to push him off when Hobbes reached us and dropped his sack.

  ‘That smells good, lass,’ he said. ‘I was worried I’d miss my breakfast.’

  10

  Sitting lazily in the sunshine after such a traumatic day, eating bacon and eggs prepared with all the old girl’s skill, it was not surprising that I over indulged. As a result, I was bloated and lethargic and quite unwilling to offer any objections when Billy volunteered to wash up. Instead, I mooched about, groaning whenever I had to bend over to pick up Dregs’s stick that he kept insisting I throw for him. His night-time excursion had not diminished his enthusiasm for running. As Billy dried the dishes and tidied them away into a hamper, the breeze began to strengthen and a curtain of iron-grey clouds appeared on the horizon.

  Hobbes, who’d been sitting hunched up, scowling at a lump of rock in his hand, sprang to his feet. ‘It’s time to get back to Sorenchester. I’ve been away too long.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Now? On such a lovely day? Why can’t we just enjoy the sun for a while?’

  ‘No,’ said Hobbes, shaking his head. ‘We need to go … and quickly. The weather’s on the turn.’

  ‘I’ve packed everything,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, emerging from the mine.

  Within five minutes we were marching downhill and, although the ground was squelchy and slippery, we made good progress and I soon kicked off my lethargy, managing to keep up despite aching legs. I might even have felt proud of myself, had Mrs Goodfellow and Billy not been carrying more than I was, though admittedly, I was carrying a lot more in my stomach. Hobbes’s load, of course, was far greater than any of ours for, in addition to the camping gear and his enormous rucksack, he was also lugging along the heavy sack he’d brought back with him. Dregs, alert like a wolf on a mission, led the way.

  It was well we’d started when we did, for the breeze had developed teeth, turning into a cold, biting wind, a reminder of the approaching autumn, and by the time we reached flatter ground the sky was darkening, though it was not yet midday.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Hobbes, looking back, ‘to see a foot of snow up there by supper time.’

  ‘Snow in October?’ I said. ‘It’s hardly likely is it?’

  ‘It’s not as rare as you might think in these hills. Let’s get back to the car while the going’s good. And quickly!’

  Billy’s hearse, parked next to the derelict manor, was already spattered in a slushy, grey sleet when we reached it. Having loaded as quickly as possible, we drove away and, when I glanced back, I noticed the higher peaks were already wearing thin, white caps. I should never have questioned Hobbes’s ability to read the weather.

  I was delighted to be leaving those wild, barren hills and to be in the comfort and warmth of Billy’s car. In the end they had been too much for me, though Hobbes had seemed completely at home, more so even than in Sorenchester.

  Although Billy put his foot down as soon as we reached the main road, we soon came across a flood and were forced to make a diversion through Blackcastle. The ancient hearse could reach no great speed but Billy drove sufficiently quickly that people in town stared. The market place was bustling, with a small travelling funfair, stalls, and several hundred people, despite the sleet and the wind. I kept my head down, not wanting anyone to recognise me and think me a liar for having claimed I only had Dregs for company. There was one person in particular I hoped wouldn’t notice me and think bad of me, though I kept an eye out, hoping to see her. I didn’t.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘It w
as practically deserted last time.’

  ‘It’s the Autumn Fair,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘Surely,’ I said, suspecting the good folk of Blackcastle of being even dafter than I’d first thought, ‘it would make more sense to hold a fair at the weekend?’

  ‘It is the weekend, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow.

  ‘No, it can’t be,’ I said. ‘We came here on Sunday, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Billy.

  I totted up on my fingers. ‘So, we camped for three nights before I found Mr Duckworth’s bones. That must have been Wednesday. Therefore, today must be Thursday. Right?’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Billy. ‘It’s Saturday.’

  ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘It can,’ said Hobbes. ‘We’d been camping for five nights before you found the body.’

  Although I was at first inclined to argue, a poster, proclaiming Blackcastle Autumn Fair was being held that weekend, took the wind from my sails. Going back over everything we’d done, I just could not make my memory tally with the facts, even when I tried working out what I’d had for breakfast each day. It was as if I’d fallen into a Rip Van Winkle-like sleep and my sense of confusion could hardly have been worse had I really slept for a hundred years.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost two days.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fret, dear,’ said Mrs G, patting my arm. ‘You probably relaxed so much you just lost track of time.’

  Although I nodded, I sat in near silence for the rest of the journey, worrying about losing my mind. It wasn’t for the first time since I’d known Hobbes, but at least getting back to Blackdog Street meant that unpacking and lugging our gear inside distracted me. Yet my concern about the lost days remained, becoming just one more item on my worry list whenever I woke in the night and was unable to get back to sleep. Fortunately, such nights were rare, for my list was long and growing, as anyone who has nearly been buried alive by ghouls, has been bitten by a wannabe vampire, has been trailed by a werewolf, and has kissed a werecat might understand.

  It felt good to be back home, especially when Mrs Goodfellow fed us a late and extremely welcome lunch, a huge plate piled with cheese and chutney sandwiches, washed down with plenty of fresh tea. Billy ate with us and, afterwards, pulling a chair over to the sink to stand on, washed up. I, feeling extremely virtuous, dried and put the dishes away.