‘But there are no Yetis here,’ I pointed out … or were there? I thought of the masked face on Sorenchester Common. But, no, it hadn’t been a Yeti, though, perhaps, it had been something similar.
‘No Yetis,’ Daphne agreed, ‘and it’s probably just a coincidence that Valentine is also interested in cryptids. I guess the only way I’ll find out what he wants is by taking on the work.’
I nodded. ‘Grubbe may have a point though—there are plenty of folk in town that aren’t what you might call mainstream … like those ghouls I told you about.’
A shudder shook me as I recalled falling into an opened grave, and the hideous faces contemplating me as a future meal. Back then, it had been my darkest hour, though I’d survived a few similar experiences since, which was a hazard of hanging around with Hobbes. I’d often wondered why I kept getting involved in his adventures, but deep down and against my better judgement, I’d become addicted to excitement. Although I feared it would be the end of me one day, at least I would have lived—my old life had been safe, dull and disappointing.
Daphne hugged me and the horrors, as well as my unwarranted fears of losing her, melted away. At least I hoped my fears were unwarranted.
‘So, you will do it?’ I asked.
‘I think so. There are no real downsides as far as I can see. I’ll do a search through the archives and let him know what I turn up—if anything. The money will certainly come in handy.’
I nodded, though I didn’t trust Valentine Grubbe—he was too smarmy. Nor did I trust his partner, Colonel Squire, who was devious and ruthless, though I had one reason to feel gratitude to him—had he not employed an unhuman thug to intimidate Daphne, I might never have summoned up the courage to ask her out.
Daphne and I returned to our laptops.
I supposed it was writing about the mountains that had brought the late lamented Piers Twilley to mind. Recalling his story, I searched for anything about the fate of Clarence Squire, the injured mountaineer. The results suggested that Clarence, younger brother of General Aloysius Squire, Colonel Squire’s grandfather, would now be eighty, if he’d survived. Then, noticing the time, I turned on the TV news.
Little interested me, until an update on Timmy Rigg’s murder.
They cut from the studio to The Shambles, where local reporter, Jeremy Pratt, introduced DCI Steve Kirten, a tall, weasel-thin man with a smug expression, a sandy moustache and a fashionable business suit. Standing in front of the floodlit church, Jeremy shoved the microphone in Kirten’s face and asked what progress the police had made.
Kirten grabbed the mic and faced the camera. ‘Our investigations are progressing well and we already have a man in custody. Since he has confessed to the heinous crime, I consider the case solved, though we are still tidying up a few details.’
‘What details?’ asked Jeremy, trying to regain control of the mic.
Kirten nudged him aside and smiled. ‘We need to know such things as why he targeted an innocent child, and where he disposed of the murder weapon. I regret that since his confession, he has become less co-operative and is apparently incapable of understanding why I won’t let him go home.’
‘Why would that be?’ asked Jeremy, on the edge of vision.
‘However, highly trained police officers are interviewing him,’ Kirten continued, turning away from the frantic reporter, ‘and I’m convinced he will break soon. In the meantime, I would like to reassure residents of Sorenchester and the surrounding districts that this type of crime is extremely rare, and that since we have the culprit—I should, of course, say suspect—in custody, they should go about their normal business with no concerns. I am gratified to have resolved this case so quickly. Thank you.’
‘And thank you,’ said Jeremy, wrenching the mic back. ‘So, there you have it—the suspect is in custody, and the good people of Sorenchester can sleep safely in their beds. And now, back to the studio.’
I snorted. ‘Hobbes says he’s got the wrong man.’
Daphne closed her laptop. ‘I thought he wasn’t on the case.’
‘He isn’t, but you know what he’s like.’
She yawned. ‘I’m too tired to think. Would you like a drink or anything before I go to bed?’
‘A glass of water, please,’ I said, playing the invalid, though I could have got it myself.
As I turned off the telly, she placed the glass on the table beside me and helped me ready the sofa for the night. After a kiss, she left me, but though my body demanded sleep, my stupid brain wouldn’t shut down. Thoughts kept churning in my head: the murder, the trouble in town, my position at the Bugle, Valentine Grubbe. Half an hour of restless fidgeting later, I sat up and reached for my laptop.
After scanning several pages of nothing, I discovered that Grubbe had first lived in the area ten years earlier. He’d been a member of an obscure group called the Old Boars Club, but I could find little about it recently, just a historical note. It seemed the Old Boars was an exclusive dining club for local businessmen, dating from the eighteenth century. The name came from the Old Boar Inn, where they used to hold their meetings.
I dug a little deeper and found that the Old Boar Inn had been on The Shambles, just a few doors down from the Bugle officers. An old black-and-white photograph showed a picturesque, though ramshackle, Cotswold stone building with a broad archway at the entrance. The place had burned to the ground in 1927, during a rowdy dinner—I wondered if the Old Boars had been to blame.
Further investigations suggested the club might still exist, but my eyes were growing heavy. I closed my laptop, lay back, and crashed out.
13
The telephone was ringing. Grumbling about the sort of person who makes calls in the middle of the night, I groped until my fingers closed on it. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, I’m on my way,’ said Daphne.
‘You what?’
‘I’m on my way home,’ she said. ‘I’m just making sure you haven’t forgotten.’
‘Forgotten what?’ I asked, sitting up, shaking my head, and trying to make sense of the world. What was I doing on the sofa?
She clicked her tongue. ‘Mr Grubbe’s driver will pick us up in fifteen minutes.’
The name ‘Grubbe’ rang a bell, but I was still lost in the fog of sleep. ‘Where are you?’ I asked.
‘At the museum, of course. I’m just leaving.’ She sounded a little exasperated.
‘What are you doing there in the middle of the night?’
There was a pause. ‘Andy, it’s quarter past twelve.’
Dimly, through the haze came a hint that something might be wrong.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, ‘but isn’t he coming round at lunchtime?’
The room was not as dark as it ought to be. At last, the penny dropped.
‘It’s lunchtime now, isn’t it?’
‘Of course. Are you sure you’re alright?’
‘I’ve just woken up.’
She laughed. ‘I thought you weren’t your usual lively self when I left this morning.’
‘Was I awake?’
‘You said “Thank you” when I brought you tea.’
I glanced at the table where a mug of tea looked cold and scuzzy. Getting up, I drew back the curtains and blinked in the midday brightness. I mumbled an apology.
‘That’s alright,’ said Daphne, ‘but, if you intend coming with us, you’d better get a move on. I have a feeling Valentine won’t look kindly on unpunctuality.’
‘I’m coming.’ No way was I letting her enjoy lunch with Grubbe, unless I was there too—it had not escaped my notice that she’d called him Valentine. ‘See you in a few minutes.’
I ended the phone call, dashed upstairs for the bathroom, and then scurried to the bedroom. Flinging open the wardrobe, I grabbed my best trousers, a smart tweed jacket, and a shirt. As I hurried to dress, a glance at the clock showed time running out.
But I was almost ready.
Then I glanced in
the mirror. There was a horrible, sticky yellowish stain down the front of my trousers—it was the orange juice spilled at Colonel Squire’s bash. Only an idiot would have hung the trousers back in the wardrobe without getting them cleaned first. I cursed myself and grabbed an old pair that looked unblemished and not too creased. After peeling off the stained trousers in record time, I stepped into the clean ones. Both feet ended up in the same leg hole, and despite three or four desperate bunny hops, I lost my balance. My shoulder crashed into the wardrobe door, which rebounded off the wall, and smacked my head as I went down.
I heard the front door open and shut.
‘Are you ready?’ Daphne shouted.
I groaned.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, after running upstairs.
‘I got in a bit of a pickle.’
‘No kidding.’ She freed my feet and helped me stand.
The doorbell rang as I was pulling up the clean trousers.
‘That’ll be Valentine’s chauffeur,’ she said. ‘Hurry up.’ She ran to answer the summons.
I pulled a flamboyant tie from Mr Goodfellow’s collection, hoping it would lend me an air of sophistication, and hurried downstairs, still somewhat flustered. Daphne gave me a quick once over, adjusted the tie, smoothed down my hair and suggested I button up my fly. She nodded. ‘You’ll do.’
I was only three minutes late, and what was three minutes in a lifetime, or indeed, a lunchtime?
‘How’s your leg?’ asked Daphne as she pushed me out the front door.
I’d not given it a thought, but now she’d drawn my attention to it, I could feel it was still tender though no longer painful. ‘A little better,’ I said.
A big, black Mercedes was parked by the side of the road, and a tall, uniformed chauffeur saluted before opening the passenger doors. Daphne and I slid in and onto leather seats, the colour of rich Jersey cream. Despite myself, I was impressed.
‘My name’s Corbett,’ said the chauffeur as he took his position at the wheel. ‘Please, fit your seat belts.’
‘Where’s Valentine … Mr Grubbe?’ asked Daphne. ‘I thought he’d be with us.’
‘The boss has an urgent matter to attend to,’ said Corbett. ‘He will meet you at the restaurant. Your reservation is for twelve forty-five, so we should be there in plenty of time. Please, relax and enjoy the journey.’
I might have relaxed more, but for Daphne calling Grubbe by his first name again. The journey was smooth, pleasant and unalarming, and I almost missed the terror of being Hobbes’s passenger.
We reached Le Sacré Bleu five minutes ahead of our reservation.
Corbett stopped at the front and let us out. ‘Please, go straight in and let the headwaiter know you are Mr Grubbe’s guests. You’ll be well looked after.’ He saluted again and turned back to the car.
I hesitated on the door step, a maelstrom of memories from my last visit swirling around my head: Violet looking so beautiful, the man bleeding out before us, the shock of discovering that she was the culprit. Though I would never have admitted it to anybody, least of all my wife, I still had some feelings for Violet, who I believed had cared for me in her own way.
‘Are you alright, Andy?’ asked Daphne.
‘Umm … yes.’ I forced a smile, pretending I’d been admiring the view, which, to tell the truth, was stunning—the ivy-clad, honey-coloured stone mansion snuggled in a dip below Helmet Hill where the little River Soren wandered between reed-strewn banks. The emerald green lawn in front would be snow white with daisies in a week or two.
‘Let’s go in.’ I steeled myself, pushed open the door, and held it for her.
As before, my impression was of dark beams, white tablecloths, sparkling glasses, and gleaming silver. The rich aroma of good French food tingled my taste buds.
The headwaiter, a plump, greying man in a sombre black suit, greeted us with a smile. ‘Bonjour, madame, monsieur. Welcome to Le Sacré Bleu.’
He was new and wouldn’t recognise me or remember the dark events of that evening. ‘Thank you,’ I said and relaxed.
‘Are you here for luncheon?’ he asked.
‘We are,’ said Daphne. ‘We are meeting Mr Grubbe.’
‘Of course,’ said the headwaiter. ‘Your table is ready, but Mr Grubbe has not yet arrived. Perhaps you’d care to take a seat in the bar and enjoy a drink while you’re waiting?’
Daphne nodded, and he escorted us to a comfortable, old-fashioned alcove with deep leather seats around gleaming dark wood tables.
‘Marie!’ He called to a young woman in a neat black skirt and crisp, snow-white blouse. ‘Our guests would like a drink while they’re waiting.’
He returned to his station to greet a smart elderly man and a rather lanky, long-haired, middle-aged woman who’d just arrived.
Marie took her position at the bar. ‘Bonjour,’ she said, her accent betraying her as a local girl. ‘What can I get you?’
‘I’ll have a small dry sherry,’ said Daphne, to my surprise—she didn’t like dry sherry.
‘And for you, sir?’
Although I fancied a pint of lager, I thought I ought to appear more sophisticated, and remembered what I’d drunk last time. ‘A pastis, please.’
‘Of course, sir. Take a seat and I’ll bring your drinks to you.’
‘Umm … ’ I said, fumbling for my wallet, ‘how much?’
‘No charge, sir. Mr Grubbe said to put everything on his account.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said, wishing I’d opted for a bottle of vintage champagne, even though it gave me gas.
We sat down by the window, overlooking the river, where ducks dabbled among the reeds and a pair of sedate swans patrolled. A minute later, Marie brought us our drinks. Daphne picked up her sherry and took a sip.
‘I thought you didn’t like that stuff,’ I said.
‘I don’t, but I need to keep a sober head today. It’s a trick I learned in Blackcastle. There often wasn’t much to do except watch television or go to the pub, but having a full glass usually stopped people pestering me to have another.’
I smiled as I recalled the fateful day when I’d walked through the Blacker Mountains to the Badger’s Rest, the only pub in that godforsaken town. I was trying to find the local police and report finding a skeleton, which turned out to be the mortal remains of Daphne’s husband, Hugh. That’s what had led to my meeting her for the first time.
I picked up a dainty water jug and poured a few drops into my glass, changing the clear pastis to a yellow, milky consistency and releasing the scent of aniseed. It stirred more memories of Violet, who’d introduced me to that drink, though I hadn’t touched it since. Forcing away her image, I concentrated on chatting to Daphne about work, house repairs and mountains. When I finished my drink, she’d barely wet her lips with hers. Hunger was growling in my breakfast-deprived stomach, and it was one o’clock already. Where was that dratted Valentine Grubbe? At least the pastis made me feel better. I ordered another. After all, he was paying, and should have had the common courtesy to turn up on time.
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea on an empty stomach?’ asked Daphne.
I shook my head and grinned, hoping a little alcoholic lubrication might help lunch slip down.
One-fifteen came and went. Where the hell had Grubbe got to?
I’d finished my second pastis, and was considering a third, when he appeared.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, looking ruffled.
‘I should bloody well think you are,’ I said, the alcohol taking over my voice. ‘What kept you?’
‘Andy!’ Daphne nudged me.
‘I had an accident,’ said Grubbe.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine, but my car is a mess.’
‘What about Corbett?’ I asked.
‘Corbett?’ Grubbe paused, looking puzzled, and then smiled. ‘Corbett is using one of my other cars. I was driving myself.’
‘What happened?’ Daphne asked wi
th, I thought, a little too much interest.
‘It was strange,’ said Grubbe. ‘I’d completed my business and was back on schedule, when this sodding great bird ran out in front. I slammed on the brakes and swerved, but a wheel clipped the verge and the car flipped into a ditch. I crawled out and called a taxi.’
‘You were lucky to walk away,’ said Daphne. Looking shocked.
‘I’d have been even luckier if that damned bird hadn’t shown up,’ he said with a laugh.
‘Was it a pheasant?’ I asked.
‘No, it was about the size of an ostrich, though I’m not an expert.’
I laughed. ‘An ostrich? In the Cotswolds? You’re joking!’
He shook his head. ‘It was huge—the last thing anyone would expect.’
I gave him my best quizzical look. He was clearly lying … or mad. Of course, he might have encountered the missing rhea, but I preferred to consider him a mad liar.
‘What about the car?’ asked Daphne.
Grubbe shrugged. ‘It’s a mess. I’ve got one of my people retrieving it and seeing if it’s worth salvaging. Not that it matters. I was intending to replace it, anyway.
‘But enough of that, no one got hurt and I expect you’re hungry—I know I am.’
‘I’ve found brushes with death tend to sharpen the appetite,’ I said with the wisdom of experience.
Two minutes later, we seated ourselves around a table by the window, with great views of the river across to Helmet Hill and Loop Woods for the two who were facing that way. My view was of Daphne to my right, which was nice, and Grubbe to my left which wasn’t, though his ruffled hair did at least make him seem a bit more ordinary.
‘Since we were running late, I rang ahead and ordered for us all,’ he explained. ‘I hope that’s alright?’
‘I should think so,’ said Daphne.
‘Depends on what you ordered,’ I said.
‘Oh, have I made a faux pas?’ he asked. ‘You don’t have any food allergies or unusual dietary requirements, do you?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s just that I don’t like a few foods: pigs’ trotters, surströmming, Casu Marzu and the like.’ Admittedly, I’d never eaten the latter two, a Swedish fermented fish dish and a Sicilian maggot-infested cheese, but I’d read about them. I had, though, tried trotters—too bland and chewy for me.
Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5) Page 13