Glass smashed not far away and a man shouted angrily. Fearing the worst, I sprinted along Blackdog Street and into Pound Street.
It was a false alarm. A van driver, attempting a three-point turn and failing to take account of the ladder jutting from the back of the van, had smashed an antique shop’s window, and, judging by the few words from the shop’s owner that weren’t blasphemous, had also destroyed a rare Georgian mirror. Ordinarily, as a fan of street theatre, I might have stayed to watch. Not this time. I turned away, desperate to find Daphne, and bumped into a dark-cloaked figure.
The impact, like walking into a tree, knocked me backwards.
‘Careful, young fellow,’ said Sid, grinning to show off his sharp, white teeth and grabbing my arm to keep me upright.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Don’t mention it. Now, why are you looking so wild?’
‘I need to find a lady …’
‘I see,’ said Sid, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
‘… who’s in danger. At least, she might be … I think. Her name is Daphne.’
‘I take it,’ said Sid, ‘that the lady in question is your young lady, and that she’s being threatened by Sir Gerald Payne and his wicked henchman.’
‘Yes. I think she’s probably at home, but I don’t know where it is and I don’t know who to ask.’
‘Would she be Mrs Daphne Duckworth?’
‘Yes,’ I gasped. ‘How did …?
‘A lucky guess. Daphne is not such a common name these days, but we had Mrs Duckworth open an account with us a few days ago.’
‘That makes sense.’ I said, hope rising. ‘She’s just moved here. I don’t suppose you remember her address?’
‘I’m afraid not; we have hundreds of customers.’
‘Damn it! Wait, though, could you perhaps look it up?’
‘I could, but that would take some time. There are all sorts of locks and timers and alarms to turn off before I can get into my office.’
‘Oh, no.’ My worry levels were rising again and, forgetting my sore and swollen knuckles, I slammed my clenched fist into my palm in frustration and yelped.
Sid wrapped his cloak around him, frowning, thinking, while my feet performed a stilted dance of frustration.
‘There may be a quicker way,’ he said. ‘I could ask Siegfried. He remembers everything and he’ll be at home now.’
‘Great! Let’s go.’
He hesitated, biting his lip hard enough to produce a pinprick of blood. ‘I’ll take you, but only if you agree to do exactly what I say.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Alright then, follow me. It’s not far.’
He took me down Pound Street and turned left into Sick Hen Lane, allegedly the most ancient part of town, where small, dark houses huddled together, leaning over the cobbled street. After a few steps Sid stopped.
‘Shut your eyes, please,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Please, do as I say. And keep them shut until I tell you to open them. Got it?’
I nodded, closing my eyes, puzzled, but trusting as Sid, grabbing my shoulders, spun me several times until I was disoriented. He nudged me forward and I might have stumbled had he not steadied me.
After a few quick strides, our footsteps echoing as if in a narrow passage, he stopped me and knocked three times on a door. After a short wait, there was a click and a creak and he guided me forward into warm air with a scent of burning logs and spice. A door closed behind us.
‘You can open them now,’ he said.
I was standing on time-worn flagstones in a narrow, low-ceilinged room, lit only by two small candles on a low table and a log fire blazing in a small, black grate, with three solid-looking oak chairs gathered around it. There was a pair of three-legged wooden stools beneath the heavily curtained window and an old-fashioned clock ticking on the mantelpiece. I would have been fascinated had I not been in such a hurry.
‘Good evening, sir, good evening Mr Caplet,’ said Siegfried, bowing. ‘I am honoured you would choose to visit our humble abode.’
‘Ah, Siegfried,’ said Sid, returning the bow, ‘it is always a pleasure. Are your brothers well?’
‘Quite well, sir,’ said Siegfried with a glance at the clock. ‘It is just past six of the clock, so they return imminently. May I offer you some refreshment?’
‘I regret,’ said Sid, ‘that we cannot stay long. My young friend here requires a little of your expert knowledge. He believes a young lady, one who has recently opened an account with us, may be in great danger. Unfortunately, he does not know her address.’
Siegfried studied me, his blue eyes enormous behind his glasses. ‘What is the lady’s name, sir?’
‘Daphne Duckworth.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember the lady. She is a widow, I believe, and hers is a most tragic story.’
‘That’s her.’ I said. ‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘Please excuse me for one moment,’ said Siegfried, closing his eyes. ‘Yes, sir, I recall her address.’
‘Can you tell me?’
‘I should not, sir, since there is her privacy to consider.’ He paused for a second. ‘However, as it is an emergency, I am prepared to break my rule. She resides in Flat two, number two Spire Street, Sorenchester. Do you know where that is, sir?’
‘Umm … yes, I do,’ I said, overwhelmed by a tsunami of amazement. Once upon a time, in the bad old days, I’d lived in that same flat, had accidently set fire to it and come horribly close to incinerating myself and the entire block. Since then, the building (so I’d read in the Bugle, having never dared go back and talk to my old neighbours) had been repaired, refurbished and gentrified.
‘Excellent,’ said Sid. ‘Thank you, Siegfried, and I bid you a very good evening.’
‘Good evening, sirs,’ said Siegfried, bowing low.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Sid’s hand grasped my shoulder. ‘Alright, you know the drill. Close your eyes.’
‘Of course.’
He spun me round, the door clicked open, and he nudged me forward. The door closed behind us, our footsteps echoed for a few moments and then the cold wind made me shiver. After another spin, I was allowed to open my eyes.
‘Sorry I had to do that,’ said Sid, ‘but Siegfried and his brothers value their privacy. Now you’d better find your young lady.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I will. Thank you so much.’
With a nod of farewell he strode away, his cloak flapping, but despite the urgency, I couldn’t help lingering for a few moments, my mind befuddled by the strange and quaint household I’d just visited and, although I looked hard, there was no sign of a house down a passageway. I never did discover where Siegfried and his brothers lived, and was left with an eerie feeling that, briefly, I’d stepped into the fairy realm. Yet, time was not on my side and so, steeling myself for action, I started to run, praying she was safe, hoping my fears were unfounded.
Leaving Sick Hen Lane, turning past the church, I stampeded down The Shambles, past the offices of the Sorenchester and District Bugle, where the lights were still burning as the latest hot news was forged by skilled reporters and editors. I’d never really fitted in there. Sprinting along Up Way and Down Way and crossing Mosse Lane, I turned into Spire Street and slowed down. Although I was sweating and panting, I was alert by the time I reached number 2, a two-storey purpose-built block, dating from the nineteen-seventies, a modern building by Sorenchester standards. The place looked much smarter, more upmarket, than when I’d lived there.
Unable to see Daphne’s car in the car park, I swore under my breath, trying to control my fear, my frustration, and to reason clearly. If she wasn’t home, she might be almost anywhere and so might Denny. Yet, remembering what I’d done, I considered it quite possible that her car was being repaired. I didn’t give up, thinking she might still be home. Never despair, I thought, approaching the block’s front entrance.
I was immediately thwar
ted by an electronic system that restricted entrance to residents and invited guests, an innovation since my day. Undaunted, I pressed the bell marked Flat 2. There was no reply. I pressed again, hoping to hear the intercom crackle into life, but nothing happened. Standing back a few paces, I looked up to see there was a light on in her flat. I tried to convince myself that she was probably fine, that she’d popped out for a minute, or was taking a shower, or listening to loud music on headphones. There were all sorts of reasons why she didn’t answer and yet … and yet I couldn’t rid myself of an image of her lying up there injured, or about to be injured: or worse.
A revving engine made me glance over my shoulder to see a gleaming, white Land Rover with tinted windows pulling up in the car park. My adrenalin levels reached critical as I darted behind a holly bush, out of sight, and watched Sir Gerald emerge, carrying a canvas shopping bag that, to judge by the way he was holding it, contained something heavy.
He was joined by Denny, looking particularly mean and dangerous, and something in his expression triggered a memory of a hot day not so long ago when a big bully with tattoos had dunked me in the river. The man I’d believed was the landlord of the Squire’s Arms had undoubtedly been Denny and I couldn’t believe I’d failed to make the connection long ago. Yet, even as I was beating myself up, I was struck by a thought. Why had he been there? Had it just been a bizarre coincidence? He couldn’t have been hunting for Daphne, because she’d still been in Blackcastle. Maybe it had merely been bad luck that I’d bumped into him, for, had the road not been closed in the aftermath of the attempted gold snatch, I would almost certainly have been able to hitch a lift.
As Sir Gerald and Denny headed towards the entrance, I was pleased to see Denny limping, and felt proud to have made the bruises on his ugly face. Yet, I was puzzled by his subservient attitude, for it was quite clear who was the master. Denny pressed Daphne’s doorbell, but she was still not answering. Then, looking around in as furtive a fashion as anyone his size could achieve, he reached into his coat, pulled out a crowbar and set to work on the door. After a couple of tortured creaks, it burst open and he stepped back, an unpleasant grin on his face, to allow Sir Gerald inside.
When both had entered, I was left in a quandary: would I be of more use if I rushed in after them? Or would it be better to find a phone box and call Hobbes? Or should I run to the police station and fetch help? It was a sticky situation and there was no time to weigh up the possibilities and be rational. Despite a bowel growling terror gripping me, I came to a decision. I was going to rush to the rescue, although it was more than likely that Denny would simply punch my lights out as soon as I was in range. Yet, I reasoned, I’d been lucky twice before, and I might make a difference, might buy her some time and, if I made enough noise, one of the neighbours would probably call the police. Taking a deep breath, trying to control the fear, I emerged from behind the bush and stepped towards the broken door. I would have liked to have walked with a determined stride, but, the truth was, it took all of my will power to move at all.
I had reached the entrance, vaguely aware of a car pulling into one of the parking bays and a car door slamming, when an unexpected voice called out: ‘Hi, Andy.’
It was Daphne. She waved and smiled and turned as if to lock the car.
‘Get back in,’ I cried, running towards her, ‘and drive! We have to get away from here. And quickly.’
‘What’s up?
‘Denny is. We need to go. Now!’
I would have liked to believe it was my authoritative tone that got through to her, but honesty made me suspect it was my look of terror. With a nod, she slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and reversed out of the parking space as I threw myself into the passenger seat. A glance over my shoulder showed Denny pounding towards us, brandishing the crowbar above his head like a battleaxe.
‘Quickly!’ I squeaked.
She threaded the car between two others, taking what I considered unnecessary care with Denny catching up so rapidly. As he swung for us, she put her foot down and he missed the back of the car by a cat’s whisker. Still he lunged, though the danger seemed over, for we were going faster than him and our exit was just ahead. Just as escape and safety seemed inevitable, a small red car swung across the road, blocking the way out and forcing Daphne to stamp on the brake. I headbutted the windscreen, the impact sufficient to stun and bring pain to my already tender bruises. Since then I have never really questioned the value of seat belts.
Denny’s cry of triumph rang in my ears and, as if in slow motion, I turned to see him raise his crowbar and smash it down on the back windscreen. Daphne ducked as a shower of glass twisted over her. Then, as the window at her side shattered, she threw herself towards me. Denny’s massive, tattooed hands reached in, one unbuckling her seatbelt, the other seizing her by the throat. He began to drag her out. Even in my dazed state, there was no way I was going to allow that sort of thing and so, grabbing his right hand, I tried to prise it off her. It had no effect whatsoever. Desperate, I lunged forward and sank my teeth into his little finger. Bellowing in pain and rage, he released her and the next thing I saw was his enormous fist powering towards my face. Shutting my eyes, raising my hands in a pathetic attempt at a block, I awaited pain that never happened.
‘Urk!’ he said, unexpectedly.
I thought it an odd remark.
Something smashed into the side of the car and, as Daphne flopped back into my arms, trembling as much as I was, I opened my eyes. Hobbes was leaning in at the window.
‘It’s alright,’ I said, ‘it’s Hobbes.’
‘Hobbes?’ Her voice was weak and tremulous.
‘Are you injured, madam?’ he asked.
‘No, not really. My throat is sore … and there’s glass in my hair, but I’m OK.’
‘Andy?’
‘I banged my head on the windscreen, but I’ll be alright in a moment.’
‘Yes,’ said Hobbes, ‘I saw that. What have I told you about seatbelts?’
‘Umm … seatbelts are for wimps?’
‘No … well, I may have said it once, but I also said that you should wear one.’
‘There was no time … umm … What happened to Denny?’
‘Mr Barker is taking a little nap.’
‘I see and Sir Gerald? He was here too.’
‘I regret he didn’t stay to make my acquaintance and made off in the Land Rover.’
‘He and Denny broke into the flats,’ I said. ‘They were looking for Daphne.’
As Hobbes stood up straight, holding his side and smiling, I could feel her relax and only then did I realise I had encircled her in my arms. Since she was snuggling against me, I guessed she didn’t mind.
‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘that I should see what damage he’s done.’
‘Quite right, madam,’ said Hobbes, wrenching open the buckled car door for her to get out.
I was very sorry when she broke away but, with a sigh, I got out as well, despite still feeling a little fuzzy round the edges. Denny was lying on his back, eyes closed, a happy smile on his ugly face and with the crowbar bent into a horseshoe around his neck. In addition to the car’s shattered rear windscreen and driver’s window, there was a dent in the door, about the size of Denny’s head, and the inside was sprinkled with glinting diamonds of glass.
‘I’d only just picked it up from the garage,’ said Daphne, staring and shaking her head. ‘I’ve had it for four years without a single problem and then I decided to come to Sorenchester …’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Duckworth,’ said Hobbes. ‘I came as quickly as I could.’
‘I’m really glad you did,’ I said, ‘but why?’
‘Sid phoned to say you might need a little help.’
‘That was good of him. I should have asked you, but I thought you were busy.’
‘I was,’ said Hobbes, ‘but public safety is important. I’d better check on the flat, now I’m here, but first, I’ll move Mr Barker out of the way a
nd then we can put the cars somewhere sensible.’
He dragged Denny onto a patch of grass and left him there, before parking both cars in marked spaces. Then, with a frown at the shattered door, he led us into the building and upstairs. Daphne’s front door had been jemmied open and her sitting room was reminiscent of my old sitting room in that it was a complete mess. Everything that could have been turned over had been turned over. I had to hand it to Denny and Sir Gerald; they were fast. I doubted they’d been inside for more than a minute.
She shrugged. ‘I’m just glad I wasn’t here. It’s only stuff. Everything can be put back or replaced.’
‘Stay outside,’ said Hobbes, going in, sniffing and examining things, seemingly at random. ‘It would appear they were searching for something. Have you any idea what?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Daphne, ‘but I think it may have something to do with Hugh’s notes. I’m not sure.’
‘Get out!’ said Hobbes, turning and running at us. ‘And quickly!’
‘Eh? What?’ I said, as quick on the uptake as ever.
Gathering us up in his great arms, he bundled us down the stairs. We’d just reached the bottom when there was a white flash, a surge of heat, a bang that made my ears ring and a hail storm of debris and dust.
He set us down outside and dusted himself off. Daphne’s eyes were wide and frightened.
‘What just happened?’ she asked.
‘A gas explosion. I haven’t seen one of those for years.’
‘Did they cause it?’
‘That,’ he said, ‘would appear very likely.’
‘But why? They might have killed me.’
Hobbes shrugged, and took off his coat, the back of which was smouldering. ‘Without evidence or questioning them, I can’t know for certain. However, it would be reasonable to speculate they were attempting to get rid of whatever they were looking for. That suggests they didn’t find it and that they wanted to destroy it at any cost. I wonder if Mr Duckworth had learned the secret of the rocks?’
3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers Page 24
