‘Can we do anything else?’ asked the young woman.
‘No, but thank you so much for helping me. I’m a little better already. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment. Please, go and enjoy the museum.’
Kathy smiled bravely and leant forward, head in her hands, as the couple departed, and the till lady returned to her till.
‘Right,’ said Kathy, glancing around and standing up, ‘let’s take the tour.’
As we headed towards the first exhibition hall, the till lady called out: ‘Excuse me, but you haven’t paid yet.’
‘We have,’ said Kathy. ‘Andy had just picked up the tickets when I had my turn.’
‘That’s not how I remember it,’ said the lady.
‘Well,’ said Kathy, ‘you are very busy. Andy, show the lady our tickets.’
‘Eh?’ I said, wondering whether her brain had been affected.
‘They’re in your pocket.’
Embarrassed, I went through a pantomime search and was astonished and confused to actually find a pair of museum tickets. I showed them to the till lady.
‘He sometimes gets so worried when I have a turn,’ said Kathy with a big smile, ‘that he forgets what he’s just done.’
The till lady smiled, looking at me as at a well-meaning, but hopeless, idiot. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘my mistake. Enjoy your visit.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ said Kathy, beaming.
As we entered the first hall and I realised what had just happened guilt surged through me and I began shaking. I wanted to confess. I wanted to run away.
‘Hold it together,’ she said. ‘Stay cool, or we’ll never pull this off.’
‘I’ll try. I would never have had the nerve to do that. I thought you were really ill.’
‘Is it your perceptiveness that Daddy finds so helpful?’
‘Yes … umm … no,’ I said, ‘but you can’t just go round breaking the law willy nilly. Don’t forget your father is a police officer.’
‘Who’s Willy Nilly?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But, what about that nice couple who helped you? You stole their tickets.’
‘They were already inside, so what’s to complain about? No one was hurt.’
‘We might have been caught!’
‘We weren’t, so chill out and enjoy yourself.’
Filled with a strange mixture of admiration for her cool ingenuity, fear we’d yet be found out, wild elation that we’d pulled it off, and guilt, I might have confessed had she not grabbed my arm and hauled me towards the exhibits. She surprised me by wanting to see everything.
We began at the beginning and it was fascinating, even to me, who was ignorant of archaeology and possessed but a sketchy knowledge of history. There were prehistoric stone tools, exquisite Bronze Age brooches, Roman pillars and statues and amazing relics of the Wars of the Roses and the English Civil War. I could have kicked myself for not having spent time there. In fact, the only thing I didn’t much like was all the people milling about, looking at what I wanted to look at and getting in the way.
‘How weird is this?’ said Kathy, grabbing my arm. ‘Look!’
She pointed to a black and white photograph of a group of locals that, according to the caption, had been taken following the discovery of a Roman mosaic during renovations to an inn in 1935.
‘Sorenchester as it used to be,’ I said. ‘It hasn’t changed all that much, except there weren’t many cars back then. It looks better without them, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘I think the inn is the Bear with a Sore Head,’ I said, ‘though it was probably still called the Ram in those days. Hobbes … your father … keeps the original bear with the sore head in the attic. It’s … umm … stuffed of course. It all began with a darts match and …’
‘Yeah, yeah’ said Kathy, ‘I’m sure it’s a very interesting story, but have you seen this guy?’
‘The one with the shovel?’
‘Doesn’t he look like Daddy?’
It was definitely Hobbes.
‘Yes,’ I admitted, hoping to put her off the scent, ‘it does a bit, except for that ridiculous moustache.’
‘Shave it off and it could almost be him. It must be a relation of some sort, I guess.’
‘I guess,’ I said cautiously, afraid she’d realise how old he was and freak out.
‘And that guy in the vest, the one leaning against the wall, he looks a bit like Daddy as well. I guess he had family hereabouts.’
I stared in amazement for, although the other man did indeed look a little like Hobbes, he looked a lot more like Featherlight Binks, the landlord of the Feathers. Several ideas tried to get in my head, but I turned them away, not wanting to think about it.
‘Actually,’ I said, jerking from my daze, ‘he once told me he was an orphan and was adopted and raised in the Blacker Mountains. I don’t think his family was from around here at all.’
‘Oh, well.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess it’s just coincidence.’
‘Let’s go and see the Viking stuff,’ I said.
We entered a twilight world where the only light came from glass cases and stands. The Viking hoard, silver coins, gold arm rings and bracelets, hack silver, precious stones, rusted remnants of weapons, made a marvellous display. What most impressed me was a massive silver goblet engraved with fantastic figures of long ships and warriors and, despite not being gold, it was even more beautiful than the one in the church. I wondered who’d buried it and why he or she had never retrieved it and was amazed it had been in the ground for so long, with generations walking over it, oblivious to the unimaginable wealth beneath their feet. It left me quite melancholic.
We sat on a bench and watched an educational video. One William Shawcroft, a local metal detectorist, had uncovered the hoard in a field by the River Soren. I only realised who it was when a historian, a tall, thin, grey-haired woman, interviewed him. Despite his piping voice and diminutive stature, he came across as authoritative and knowledgeable.
‘That’s Billy!’ I said, ‘I know him.’
‘The little guy?’ asked Kathy.
‘Yes, he’s a friend of Hobbes … your father, but I never knew he was into this, though, come to think of it, he did once show me a Roman coin he’d found in Ride Park.’
‘Suddenly,’ explained the on-screen Billy, ‘I had a massive signal on my detector, so I dug down a couple of inches and found a coin. When I cleaned it, I could see it was gold and from the reign of King Athelstan, in the tenth century AD. I went a little deeper and came across the goblet and knew at once I’d discovered something truly amazing.’
The video showed that, before cleaning, the find had looked exactly like something dug up from a muddy field, more like a crushed turnip than something valuable. Then, moving on to the conservation of the articles, it showed the techniques. I was fascinated by how much effort had gone into scraping out the tiny bits of embedded dirt, using porcupine quills and electrical vibrations.
Just before the end, the focus pulled from a bracelet in the process of being cleaned to show the person cleaning it.
I gasped. ‘That’s Mrs Duckworth!’
‘You seem to know a lot of folk in the treasure business,’ said Kathy, sounding sceptical. ‘Is she a friend of yours, too?’
‘No, I’ve only met her once, but it was last week, just after I’d found her husband’s skeleton.’
‘Bullshit!’ said Kathy. ‘Are you some sort of crazed fantasist?’
‘No, it’s all true. It was when we were camping. I was with Dregs and he found the skull.’
‘So you didn’t find it. The dog did. If you’re gonna impress folk with tall tales, you gotta be consistent.’
‘I was with the dog. The police reckoned there’d been an accident, but I don’t think so. The man had been buried under rocks and Hobbes thinks he might have been murdered. At least I think that’s what he thinks.’
‘I’ve heard enough of your ravings. Let’s get out
of here.’
‘Alright, but I am telling the truth. You should ask your father.’
‘I will, too.’
A wall clock showed the time was approaching five o’clock, or, as the museum staff called it, closing time, but she insisted on looking round the gift shop before we left. Although I was nervous, fearing she’d steal something using me as a decoy, all she did was browse a booklet about the hoard. It had been written by Daphne Duckworth, whose photograph was inside.
So that was her name! I liked it: Daphne. I was saddened that I’d never see her again. Not that I could expect anything if I ever did, because I was sure she hadn’t thought much of me. Still, getting to know someone over the dry bones of her husband was not ideal and, perhaps, had circumstances been different …
‘Sometimes,’ said Kathy, ‘I think you’re not really with me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, falling back into reality, ‘I was thinking of something.’
‘Congratulations. What are you gonna show me now?’
‘Well … umm … it’s getting late, so nothing much will be open now.’ Nothing, I thought, except some of the pubs. I didn’t half fancy a pint, or two, of lager, but being penniless, that was out of the question. ‘We might as well go home. The old girl will make us a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer.’
She nodded. ‘That sounds like a plan.’
We walked out into the street where the lights were already glowing bright and the cold wind was nipping at ears and fingers. I put my hands in my pockets.
‘Let’s get a move on,’ she said, shivering.
We hurried back along Ride Street towards Blackdog Street. A middle-aged woman, carrying a pair of heavy string bags, was a few steps in front when a hooded figure darted from the shadows and shoved her. She fell with a cry, spilling groceries over the pavement. The figure ran away.
‘He’s got my handbag!’
I picked up a tin as it rolled into the gutter and hurled it, watching as it arced through the evening sky, completely missing the target, but smashing the back windscreen of a parked car. The mugger, running round a bend, went out of sight.
I started after him, as a furious woman got out of the car. She was pretty. She was also familiar.
‘What,’ she said, holding up the tin, ‘did you do that for?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, biting my bottom lip, ‘it was an accident.’
She stared at me and her frown deepened. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘Yes, Mrs Duckworth. It’s Andy. I found your husband.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here. I’ve just been showing her round the museum.’ I pointed at Kathy who was helping the victim retrieve her shopping. ‘We saw you on the video. I thought it was very interesting.’
‘Great. I’m flattered, but why were you throwing tins of beans?’
‘I was trying to stop a mugger. He’s got that poor lady’s handbag.’
‘Then shouldn’t you go after him?’
‘Umm … yes … I suppose. Sorry about your car. Bye.’
I ran, looking along Goat Street and up Hedbury Road, but it seemed he’d got away. On the point of giving up, I heard an empty drinks can being kicked. It came from the car park on Hedbury Road. A hooded head popped up before ducking back behind the wall.
Stupidly, I ran across the road and vaulted the low wall into the car park.
‘Now I’ve got you,’ I said in triumph, intending to prove that I really was packed full of the right stuff. I was going to show Kathy what I was made of and, hopefully and more importantly, I was going to impress Mrs Duckworth: Daphne.
The mugger, the handbag still tucked under his arm, stood up, eyes glinting from the depths of his hood. He was wearing baggy blue jeans and a pair of boots that looked as if they could kick a man in half, but what I most noticed was that he was taller than me.
‘Give me the bag, at once,’ I said holding out my hand. Despite my bravado, my voice quavered.
‘Piss off!’ he yelled, his voice harsh.
‘Not until you let me have it,’ I said, fighting against leg-wobbling fear.
The mugger, a man of few words, pulled out a knife. ‘I’ll really let you have it unless you back off.’
‘Put that down,’ I said, filled with a sudden bravery and a sense of elation. ‘Just give me the bag, and no one gets hurt.’
‘You having a laugh, mate? Get out of here now, or I’ll stick you.’
I really did laugh. ‘Honestly, it will be so much better for you if you just drop the knife and give me the bag.’
Although I couldn’t see his face, his body posture suggested hesitation, or confusion. Taking a hesitant step forward, he waved the knife.
‘Sorry,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘but I did warn you.’
Hobbes, silent as a hunting tiger, leapt from the shadows and rammed a wheelie bin over the mugger’s head, jamming it down, pinning his arms to his sides. The knife dropped with a clatter, the handbag dropped with a thud, and the mugger fell to his knees amid an outpouring of swearing and maggots. Dregs, sniffing him, bristled and growled.
‘Evening, all,’ said Hobbes, leaning on the bin. ‘Did you and Kathy have a good afternoon?’
‘Umm … yes … it wasn’t bad,’ I said, patting Dregs. ‘We went to the museum.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Now, what did you do to annoy this fellow?’
‘Nothing … he mugged a lady and stole her handbag, so I went after him.’
‘That’s very public spirited of you, but it might have been dangerous.’
I nodded, still a little weak at the knees. ‘I wasn’t half glad to see you coming. I thought you’d be hunting the bank robbers.’
‘All in good time,’ said Hobbes. ‘I had to take some rocks for analysis. By the way, where is Kathy?’
‘She’s just round the corner helping the poor lady that got mugged. Umm … what rocks?’
‘Now is not the time. We’d better check on the ladies. Shift yourself – and quickly.’
‘Yeah, but what about him?’ I pointed at the bin.
‘I’d better bring him along as evidence. Would you mind picking up the handbag? And the knife. It’s dangerous to leave them in car parks.’
Grabbing the bin in both arms, turning it over, he carried it towards Ride Lane, with the mugger’s legs kicking wildly out the top, the volume of his cursing increasing, and Dregs growling. We found Kathy with her arm around the victim, who, although crying, was unhurt. The lady cheered up immediately as I handed back the bag,
‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at Hobbes. ‘I thought I’d lost it and it would have been awful, because it’s got my keys and my credit card and all sorts of stuff.’
‘Just doing my job, Mrs Brown,’ said Hobbes.
Since I thought I’d done rather well in the circumstances, I was a little miffed to get no credit. Admittedly, I would have been in trouble had Hobbes not showed up in the nick of time, but I had found the mugger and stopped him getting away. Even so, I realised my heroics had been somewhat dimmed by what I’d done to Daphne’s car. I looked around to apologise again, but she’d gone. I sighed, though I’d probably not done my chances with her any harm at all. I must merely have hardened her dislike for me.
The lady, thanking Hobbes again, insisting she was fine, picked up her bags and left.
‘Good job, Daddy,’ said Kathy, smiling proudly. ‘Now what are you going to do with this hoodlum?’
‘I suppose,’ said Hobbes, ‘that I should get him cleaned up. It’s not very pleasant inside that bin, as his rather incontinent language would suggest.’ He glanced at the church clock. ‘We’d better get a move on. I wouldn’t want us to be late for tea.’
14
When we reached the steps outside the house, Hobbes upended the bin and the mugger, still swearing, slithered onto the pavement, along with a disgusting, putrid stench. Pushing back his hood, dislodging a selection of wriggling maggots and bits of rotten v
egetables, he revealed himself as a slim young man with short, blond hair and a narrow face, bursting with acne. He cowered away from Dregs, who was still bristling and growling, before looking up and seeing Hobbes for the first time.
‘Please, don’t hurt me,’ he said, suddenly more like a frightened schoolboy than a hardened criminal: a very dirty, smelly schoolboy, to be sure.
‘I have no intention of hurting you,’ said Hobbes, ‘but accidents can happen. I try to avoid them.’
I was sure, at least I thought I was sure, that he meant it as a mere statement of fact, but I could understand how the mugger might take it the wrong way, especially with Dregs’s aggressive posture suggesting a likely cause of an accident.
‘Take the dog inside, please, Andy,’ said Hobbes.
Dragging him up to the front door, I fumbled for my key. I was still proud Hobbes had trusted me with it, for my parents had never done the same and, until I’d left to find my own way in the world, I’d had to be back home by ten-thirty, which was their bedtime. It had done little for my social life, or my reputation. Opening the door, I shoved Dregs inside, much to his annoyance.
When I turned round the mugger, back on his feet, had adopted a sort of fighting stance. Though Hobbes was smiling, he’d positioned himself where he could protect Kathy from any sudden lunge.
‘I warn you,’ said the mugger, ‘I’m a fifth Dan in Karate and my feet are lethal.’
‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Hobbes. ‘Have you tried washing them with soap and water and applying talc?’
‘Are you taking the piss? I don’t like it when people take the piss.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Hobbes, ‘and I ask you to mind your language when a lady is present. Now, stop fooling around, or you’ll hurt yourself.’
‘I’ll hurt you.’
‘That is not going to happen. Your stance is all wrong and you don’t know how to form a fist.’
‘I’ll show you,’ said the mugger, shuffling forward, throwing a few air punches.
‘No,’ said Hobbes, shaking his head, ‘you’re doing it all wrong. If you close your hand like this,’ he formed a fist that would have cowed a mad bull, ‘then you’re far less likely to injure yourself.’
3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers Page 16
