3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Well, what d’ya normally do for kicks in this neck of the woods?’

  ‘There’s not much to do on a cold afternoon. You’ve seen the church and the museum.’

  ‘Too true.’

  ‘Well, I sometimes used to go for a drink.’

  ‘Why the heck not? What’s the wildest place in town, buddy?’

  ‘Oh … probably the Feathers. There’s usually something happening down the Feathers.’

  ‘Great, let’s go.’

  ‘I must warn you it’s a bit grotty and the landlord is … well … umm … different, and it can sometimes be dangerous there.’

  ‘It sounds fun.’

  We set off, although I wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea, but it had been my best shot at short notice and there was no place quite like the Feathers and she had allowed no time for any other suggestions. I just hoped Hobbes would forgive me. She kept squeezing my sore hand, talking and laughing, as if she were the happiest woman in the world. I really did not understand her.

  Even the first sight of the Feathers, all peeling paint and grubby windows, didn’t dampen her spirits. As we approached the front door it opened, a young man flew out and landed with a splat and a curse on the pavement. Picking himself up, he wiped a smear of blood from his nose and swaggered away as if well satisfied with his experience.

  Plucking up courage, I ushered her inside, where Featherlight was resting one of his bellies on the bar, and wiping his hands on his stained and torn vest.

  ‘Caplet,’ he said, ‘didn’t I tell you not to show your ugly face in here again?’

  ‘No, I don’t think you did.’

  ‘Well I bloody should’ve. Who’s the lady?’

  ‘This is Kathy.’

  ‘A fine looking bit of skirt. You’re a lucky bastard.’

  Kathy giggled and patted me heartily on the back. As I stumbled towards the bar, Billy’s head appeared.

  ‘Wotcha, Andy. The usual?’

  ‘Please … and what would you like, Kathy?’

  ‘I’ll have a Margarita.’

  ‘Not in here you won’t,’ said Featherlight, mopping up a puddle of spilled beer with his vest.

  ‘Well, what can a girl drink round here?’

  Billy grinned. ‘Beer or white wine. I wouldn’t trust the spirits.’

  ‘Gimme a beer then, buster.’

  ‘Bitter? A pint?’

  ‘Sure … whatever.’

  Billy poured the drinks, raising his eyebrows when I handed him actual money, but saying nothing to embarrass me. A large gulp of lager, cool and crisp, washed away the cocktail’s hideous residue.

  Kathy took a hefty swig of her bitter, frowned and shrugged. ‘What the heck is this?’

  ‘Hedbury Best Bitter,’ said Billy.

  ‘Jeez! What’s their worst bitter like? It’s warm and it tastes like … I don’t know what the heck it tastes like. Is there something wrong with it?’

  I cringed, expecting Featherlight to explode at the slur. Billy reached under the counter for the steel helmet he’d taken to wearing in times of crisis as Featherlight turned to face her.

  ‘She didn’t mean it,’ I said. ‘She’s just not used to British beer. She’s from America.’

  Featherlight’s habitual frown had been replaced by a smile, showing off a mouthful of large, insanitary teeth. ‘I can tell where she’s from, Caplet. You think I’m so daft I can’t place an American accent?’

  ‘No … I was just pointing it out.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Sit down, shut up, and drink, while I talk to the young lady.’

  Taking my glass to a sticky seat, I sat at an even stickier table as Billy removed his helmet. Featherlight, drawing up a barstool, wiped it with his vest in what was, for him, a gallant gesture.

  ‘Have a seat, miss,’ he said, giving a low bow.

  She sat as requested and, to give her some credit, without a shudder.

  ‘Can I offer you something different?’ asked Featherlight, gesturing at her beer.

  Billy’s mouth dropped open at this unprecedented offer.

  She shook her head. ‘No thanks, buddy. I’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Well then, Miss Kathy,’ said Featherlight, ‘what brings an American beauty to my humble establishment?’

  ‘It was Andy’s suggestion.’

  ‘Well, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m grateful to him. It’s not often we get a genuine American lady in here, but he shouldn’t have brought you. This can be a rough place.’

  Kathy smiled. ‘It looks fine to me and I reckon you’re big and tough enough to protect a gal should there be any rough stuff.’

  He inclined his head. ‘I guess you’re right at that. But,’ he said, glaring at his customers, ‘don’t any of you lot think of trying anything.’

  There was an outbreak of mumbled denials and much head shaking among the half-dozen or so desperate drinkers.

  Featherlight, nodding, turned back to Kathy, still maintaining his disconcerting smile. ‘Are you here on holiday?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m visiting family.’

  ‘Caplet?’

  ‘No, he’s just been kind enough to show me around town.’

  ‘Mrs Goodfellow, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Inspector Hobbes is my daddy.’

  ‘Hobbes?’ Featherlight raised his hairy eyebrows. ‘I didn’t think he had it in him.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Kathy. We go way back.’

  ‘I bet you do. You remind me of him a little, except of course, you’re much better looking.’

  Featherlight’s face took on an even ruddier tint than normal and his smile broadened.

  I sat, elbows on the table, open-mouthed, for, although I could think of many words to describe him, good-looking was not one that sprang immediately to mind, even in comparison to Hobbes. Like me, Billy was watching, wide-eyed and engrossed by the show. Unlike me, he was not recovering from a toxic cocktail, and the fact that I was enjoying gulping down lager at the Feathers proved just how awful it had been. Still, as my mouth and throat recovered, I was able to concentrate on my kiss with Daphne and felt well-disposed to Featherlight for taking Kathy off my hands, allowing me time to indulge my memory. The trouble was, something kept nagging, a vague, guilty feeling, as if I ought to be doing something urgent. The day’s events churned through my head in a random stream until a stray thought snagged my conscience. Knocking back what was left of my drink, I peeled myself off the seat.

  ‘I’ve just thought of something,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  I ran from the pub to warn Sid.

  18

  I was legging it towards Grossman’s Bank, skilfully weaving between shoppers and charity collectors, hoping I wasn’t already too late, when a thought stopped me outside a tea shop. What if Sid was not at the bank? Might he not be at home? Or enjoying lunch somewhere? Or was he somewhere else entirely? After deliberating, panting from the run for a minute or two, I reasoned that I should try his house first, because if he was there, he was likely to be on his own, whereas there would be other people at the bank, not to mention some sort of security. I set off again, just as a little, white-haired old lady stepped out of the tea shop. Tripping over the wheeled basket she was towing, knocking it over, I landed in the gutter. I picked myself up, apologising, retrieved her spilled groceries and listened to a long and bitter lecture, criticising the young people of today. Although at other times I might have been flattered to be considered young, I had a job to do and, turning away with a final word of apology, I ran.

  ‘Stop thief!’ she cried.

  I was still holding her handbag. Stopping, apologising again, I threw it back and fled.

  Reaching Doubtful Street, I stood outside Sid’s house, ringing the bell and pounding on the door, without a response. Taking a deep breath, I turned around and headed for the bank at a gentle jog, there being no gallop left in me.


  When I was halfway down The Shambles, the bank already in sight, a big hand seized my shoulder and dragged me into an alley, nearly causing my heart to burst from my chest.

  ‘Don’t hurt me,’ I said, cringing.

  Hobbes’s deep chuckle gave me instant comfort.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve been told to look for someone fitting your description. The suspect allegedly mugged an old lady before hurling her own handbag at her, striking her a blow on the head.’

  ‘I hit her on the head? Is she alright? I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘So it was you. I suspected as much and, no doubt, you’ll be pleased to know the lady is fine, apart from being extremely annoyed with the youth of today, by which she means you. Tell me what happened.’

  I explained, adding what I’d overheard at lunch and why I’d been in such a hurry.

  ‘It could only happen to you, Andy.’ He laughed and paused for a moment, his face screwed up with thought. ‘However, your information is revealing. Things are finally starting to make sense.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘The robbery, the rocks, Hugh Duckworth’s death.’

  ‘Not to me they’re not. Tell me what rocks?’

  ‘Rocking chairs?’

  ‘No, I mean, what rocks are you talking about?’

  ‘The ones I took from Sir Gerald’s mine.’

  ‘I thought you said they were just ordinary ones.’

  ‘They are, which is precisely why they are so important.’

  I scratched my head. Conversations with Hobbes didn’t always make sense.

  ‘What about Sid?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, he can look after himself, but I suppose I should have a word with him.’

  ‘Do you really think he’ll be alright?’

  ‘He always has been and I doubt this time will be any different.’

  ‘But what about Denny?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be alright too, just as long as he keeps out of Sid’s way.’

  ‘What? Denny’s really strong and he’s really mean.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what Sid can do. You’re forgetting what he is.’

  ‘He’s a nice old man.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s an old vampire, who chooses to be nice. I’m far more worried about Denzil Barker’s well-being, and I’d like to give him a word of warning before he does anything else he’ll regret.’

  ‘Good,’ I said uncertainly, but slightly reassured. ‘There’s another thing – Sir Gerald was confident Denny could beat you, and don’t forget, you are injured.’

  He shrugged. ‘I hope it won’t come down to violence, but if it does, well, who knows?’

  Some of my reassurance evaporated, but the jut of his chin suggested he was not to be argued with. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but could you explain about the rocks?’

  ‘I showed them to a geologist who had them analysed.’

  ‘And what did he discover?’

  ‘She confirmed they are perfectly ordinary rocks, just the same as any other in that region of the Blacker Mountains.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ I said, ‘it hardly seems worth the effort.’

  ‘On the contrary, it was most illuminating.’

  ‘I don’t see why. And what’s it all got to do with Hugh Duckworth’s death?’

  ‘Mr Duckworth was, I understand, an amateur geologist as well as being a historian. He was planning to publish a booklet on the Blacker Mountains.’

  ‘But what has that got to do with his death?’

  ‘I think,’ said Hobbes, ‘that it is likely that his research had the potential to reveal a certain inconvenient truth.’

  ‘What truth?’

  ‘That the rocks around Blacker Hollow are quite ordinary.’

  ‘You keep saying that, but it doesn’t make any more sense. I don’t get it.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it for a while longer. It’ll do you good. In the meantime, let’s go and tell Sid your news. Come along. And quickly.’

  As he strode from the alley, I followed, even more confused than usual. The rocks completely baffled me, because I could see no significance to them at all. Had they been valuable I might, perhaps, have seen a motive for keeping them secret, even for killing someone, but they weren’t.

  However I looked at what had happened, it seemed to me that Hugh Duckworth had been murdered and that someone, possibly Hobbes, even though it had taken place outside his jurisdiction, should be investigating. I suspected Denny and it was chilling to know that I’d given him a reason to hold a grudge. Perhaps Daphne also suspected him. She was certainly afraid of him and with good reason. Even so, I didn’t know why he’d attacked her after she’d left Blackcastle. I wondered if she had something Sir Gerald wanted. Could it be information? Possibly the inconvenient truth Hobbes had mentioned? Yet, despite my fear of him, I recognised that Denny was the hired help and that he was only doing what he was told to do. It was clear Sir Gerald was behind her problems, although it would be difficult to prove. I really hoped Hobbes would help her and make her well-being his priority, despite the importance of recovering the stolen gold and catching the rest of the gang.

  As we crossed The Shambles, heading for the bank, which although still festooned in police tape, was open for business, Hobbes asked about Kathy, reminding me of what was apparently his true priority. ‘She was a little dispirited at lunchtime,’ he said, ‘and I hoped you might bump into her and keep her amused for a while. It’s a shame I’m so busy at the moment because I’d like to spend more time getting to know her. By the way, where is she?’

  ‘At the Feathers,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘She was talking to Featherlight. They appeared to be getting on very well.’

  He frowned. ‘You left her at the Feathers?’

  I nodded. ‘I had to find Sid. She’ll be alright.’

  ‘I hope so, but it’s no place for a lady, especially one on her own.’

  ‘But Featherlight was looking after her. He wouldn’t try anything on, would he?’

  ‘No. In his own peculiar way, Featherlight is an honourable man. I’m just not so sure about some of his customers.’

  ‘He can take care of them.’

  Hobbes brightened. ‘Of course he can.’

  We entered Grossman’s Bank, a solid, dark, heavy-barred building that looked as if it had not changed since Queen Victoria was sitting on the throne. My footsteps rang on black and white tiles as we approached a varnished door with a gleaming brass handle. Hobbes knocked and a diminutive, skinny man with pointy elbows, wearing a tight black suit and steel-framed, half-moon glasses, opened the door.

  ‘Good afternoon, Siegfried,’ said Hobbes. ‘Is Mr Sharples in?’

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Siegfried, with a slight Germanic intonation, giving us a quaint bow. ‘He’s in his office. Please, go straight through. He’s expecting you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hobbes, leading me down a gloomy corridor to the enormous, polished, panelled door at the end, a door intended to impress. It bore a brass plaque with the legend: ‘Dr Sidney Sharples, manager.’ As he knocked, it swung open without a sound.

  Sid, immaculate in a navy blue, pinstripe business suit, was behind a vast desk in an old-fashioned and rather grand office, with half a dozen armchairs arranged in a semicircle around a log fire. Rising from his green leather chair, he removed his spectacles and smiled.

  ‘Wilber, Andy, welcome.’

  Walking around the desk, he approached with his hand held out. As I shook it, I was again struck by the delicacy and softness of his plump fingers and couldn’t see him faring well should Denny ever catch up with him.

  ‘How can I help you? Would you like a cup of tea? Or can I arrange an overdraft?’

  ‘I never say no to a cup of tea,’ said Hobbes, sitting in a leather-covered armchair.

  ‘Yes please,’ I said, ‘tea would be nice.’ I wriggled onto the chair next to Hobb
es, finding it was surprisingly deep and astonishingly comfortable, and stretched out my hands, warming them at the blaze.

  Sid pulled a cord on the wall and Siegfried entered, once again treating us to his bow.

  ‘A pot of tea for three, if you’d be so good,’ said Sid.

  Siegfried bowed and departed.

  Sid sat down with us and I wondered if his smile was a little forced, though I believed his welcome was sincere.

  ‘It’s good of you to drop by. It makes a pleasant change from Colonel Squire. I suppose he has a good reason for shouting and threatening, but it doesn’t help. Still, I suspect the colonel is all bluster and is mostly harmless, which is more than can be said of his friend, Sir Gerald.

  ‘But, enough of my woes! How are you getting on with the investigation, old boy? Any progress?’

  ‘Some,’ said Hobbes, ‘and Andy has recently provided me with some interesting points that, combined with the physical evidence, are quite revealing.’

  ‘Well done, young fellow,’ said Sid.

  I smiled, looking suitably modest, which wasn’t difficult as I had no idea what I’d done that was so significant.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Hobbes continued, ‘Andy informs me that Sir Gerald plans to send his manservant, Mr Denzil Barker, commonly known as Denny, round to talk to you.’

  ‘One more won’t make much difference,’ said Sid with a shrug.

  ‘Mr Barker,’ said Hobbes, ‘is not noted so much for his talking as for his extreme acts of violence.’

  Sid nodded. ‘I see. Any idea when I might expect him?’

  ‘No, except that it’s unlikely to be in full public view. Mr Barker, I have been led to believe, favours encounters down dark alleys and on lonely footpaths. He is, according to a young lad I was talking to, particularly handy with a sock filled with sand.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning. How will I recognise him?’

  ‘Tell him, Andy.’

  ‘Oh … umm … right. He’s a big, brawny man, like Hobbes and just as ug … umm … unusually strong, and he has a bald head and a tattoo of a red rose on his right arm.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sid.

  ‘Besides that,’ said Hobbes, grinning, ‘Andy is too modest to mention that Mr Barker has a variety of superficial injuries to his face, including a bloodied nose and a split lip that he obtained when Andy knocked him down.’